


Demon of the North - Rebirth

by Winter1231505



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Book 1: A Game of Thrones, Drama, Family, Intrigue, Politics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:41:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 46,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28776972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winter1231505/pseuds/Winter1231505
Summary: When his father is chosen as Hand of the King, Cregan Stark, second born son and twin brother to Sansa, goes with him to King's Landing. With Lions and Vipers in every corner, he must navigate the political hell and web that is the capital in an effort to keep the realm from descending into chaos, all while keeping his family safe from those that wish to destroy them.A complete overhaul and re-write of my original Demon of the North story.
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: Origins**

The sound of wood smacking against flesh echoed across the courtyard as the small child was sent flying by Garlan’s blow. The boy hit the ground with a loud thud, and for a moment, he had wondered if today was the day he had gone just a step too far with him.

“Come on lad, up on your feet. If this were a true battle you would have been gutted by now.” He tried to be as encouraging as he could, but in the end he knew that in these types of situations, sternness was preferable to coddling. Were he someone like Randyll Tarly, it would be nothing, yet he was not that type of man, so what he lacked in firmness with words, he made up for it with his actions.

Almost like a wooden doll, the boy stood up on his feet and went to pick up the wooden practice sword that flew from his hands. He had his back turned to him during it all, yet when he finally retrieved his weapon and turned around to face the knight Garlan saw the boy’s bloodied and bruised face and could not help but feel sorry for the lad. His nose had received a bad hit as well, and was slightly bent, though nothing too bad.

Cregan Stark, the little wolf that came down from the North. The boy was carted off here to ward for his father Mace Tyrell. To this day, he will not understand the logic behind it, though the machinations of court politics and diplomacy were relegated to his grandmother and older brother. Overall, though, he had been staying with them for some time now, about 4 years if he recalled correctly. Though his father was supposed to be his guardian, guide the child in both education and ways of life, Mace Tyrell failed exceptionally, which left both his mother and his children to pick up his scraps. This was not necessarily a bad thing however.

“Hold.” He announced to the boy, lowering his sword and going over to the sides to pick up a clean rag before handing it to him. “Here, clean that off you. I won’t have any of your blood touch this dirt till you’re old enough to understand what it would mean.”

Cregan looked at the rag for a moment, not moving a muscle from his initial place and still holding onto his sword with both hands while trying to imitate the stance Garlan had taught him when sword fighting. “You won’t have time to wipe yourself off in a real battle.” His northerner accent, while fairly hushed at this point, could still be recognized clearly.

With not even ten and two years of age, younger than all Garlan’s blood siblings, the little wolf had more fire and determination in himself than half the Reach combined. Being stubborn and being strong-willed were two lines of a very thin rope however, and both could get you killed in an actual fight. He was a good student, at least when being taught something initially, yet the downside is that Cregan would cling to words with an iron grip in his head, once something was instructed to him, you must hope it is correct. He had long tried to break the boy’s habit of digging his head in the dirt and becoming unadaptable, yet mules could be more easily convinced.

“You’re right.” Garlan chose to switch up his tactics. “Because if we used real swords just now, you would have lost that nose of yours, along with half of your face.” He twitched the rag in his hand. “Now come on, wipe it off.”

Cregan looked at the rag with a scowl, dropping his stance. The boy took a deep breath through his mouth and shut his eyes closed. Without thinking, he grabbed his nose with one hand and quickly snapped it back into place. Garlan nearly jumped at him to try and stop it, yet it happened so fast he could not even realize what the boy was trying to do. Cregan grit his teeth and cusped his face with both hands, most likely trying to hide the tears and anguished expression he was giving off right now, before curling up into a small ball of pain.

Without a word, he reached out his hand towards Garlan and motioned his fingers for the rag, a sense of urgency emanating off of him as his whole body began to shake, most likely from trying to hold himself back from screaming. “Well, I suppose that is one way to do it.” Garlan tried to crack a smile, yet it was a difficult thing to do with the sight in front of him.

Once the rag was in his grasp Cregan moved his hands and revealed a face doing its best to hold back every single urge to start crying. With one hand, he covered up his left nasal hole and violently blew his nose, a small clump of blood shooting from the right one and onto the ground. “There…” the boy murmured before resting the rag on his nose. The bleeding had stopped, but then again it was nothing too serious to begin with, however now Garlan had understood why the boy didn’t want to stop. He was running on the rush from the pain, if he stopped, it would become too noticeable, and thus would expose this side of him to the rest of the courtyard.

He was not a prideful child, nothing of the sort really. Yet he was still a child, and children never wish to be told they are what they are, and will always try to imitate what the adults do. Through their many sessions, Cregan had seen the Men at Arms of their court take beating after beating and come back from it as if it was nothing, especially from the fights Garlan had participated in. Yet what the boy did not understand was that these men were soldiers with years of experience, who had dedicated their lives to warfare, and he was the son of Eddard Stark who was still learning how to read and write.

Garlan sighed. “Come on.” He grabbed the boy by the arm gently and raised him off the ground. “You’re in no condition to keep going like this, we shall continue this tomorrow.”

“What?!” the boys eyes shot wide open. “No! It’s fine, I can still fight!” he shook himself away from Garlan’s grasp, all the pain seemingly fading away once he had uttered those words, that or he was just pretending again, the latter being much more of a possibility.

“Come now Cregan, don’t argue, you are not out here to prove anything.”

With grumbling contempt, the boy conceded, and followed away from the courtyard. “Drink up first,” Garlan handed the boy a jug of cool water, “and then we’ll have the Maester take a look at you.”

* * *

**2 years later...**

Even through the thick walls of his room the Sun’s light could still be felt on his skin. The Reach was known for its fair weather, far more suitable for farming than any other place in Westeros, yet this Summer had lasted nearly as long as Cregan could remember. He had gotten used to it somewhat, but even for the people of the Reach it sometimes became too much.

Slowly but surely he had wrapped up any remaining clothing left in his chambers, all packed as neatly as he could in chests and leather bags. Today would be his last day in Highgarden.

It would be 6 years now that he had spent his life within these walls. Learning, training, playing, eating alongside these people who he at first could not even comprehend on how to speak to. Yet he managed, as most wards often do. Cregan knew of his fortune however, there were not many who could serve as wards to the wardens of the Reach, much less someone from the North, yet even then they did not need to pay him as much need and care as they did.

As he stuffed his final coat into the chest, Cregan thought back on his time here, and on the people around him. Willas, who had taught him how to read and write, ever patient and frugal, he never once lost his temper with him, explaining anything and everything Cregan had asked him. Garlan, who taught him swordplay, brave and dauntless, he reminded him so much of Robb back in Winterfell, always the one headfirst into danger, never even flinching. Loras, ever bright and always pushing himself, the two of them would play together almost every day, recounting tales of knights and heroes from the past. And then there was Margaery, she was the first face Cregan saw when he entered Highgarden all those years ago, and ever since then the girl did not let him so much as breathe without her.

“You seem about ready.” speaking of, said girl peaked her head from the open door to his chambers. “That was rather fast I must admit. Didn’t know you were so eager to get rid of us.”

“Ever the teaser you are.”

“Come now, you didn’t honestly think you could sneak away from us that easy?” compared to her lavish dresses and fine embroidery, Cregan had always looked more a pauper than a son of nobility. He liked his clothing simple and easy to put on, a far cry from the Tyrell girl who spent nearly as much time preparing to go out of her room as she did being actually outside.

“Yes well unfortunately I haven’t learned how to turn into a mouse just yet, Maester Ebert has been rather slow with that lesson I must say.”

“I would certainly hope he has, unless you’re content on being a snack for Willas’ hawk.” Margaery walked over to the bed and sat down, lazily swinging her feet across the floor.

Two servants soon came in; Willy and Tor were their names, tavern lads from Winter Town who were enlisted by Cregan’s mother and father to serve as helpers. They were good men, a bit dim but otherwise had good hearts. “All done m’lord?” Willy asked, he was the more quick-witted of the two, and by far the better talker.

“Yes, but you two can go and get yourselves ready, I can carry these by myself.” the two looked ready to object but Margaery cut in before they could.

“No, he can’t. You two carry those to the wagon. Cregan, come and sit for a moment. I need to talk to you about something.” There were times when Margaery seemed almost like a different person when speaking, one point she would be the young and innocent noble girl from Highgarden, the other she would channel the spirit of her grandmother with a tone sharper than any sword he’s ever wielded.

Cregan sighed and complied, he learned long ago not to say no to the Tyrell women. It was bad luck to get pricked by a rose. Willy and Tor complied as well, quickly gathering the remaining luggage. Tor was by far the more physically built one of the two, so he managed to pick up the chest with ease, while Willy kept to the far less heavy leather bag. Just before they left however, Willy grabbed him by the shoulder. _“Now’s your chance lad, go get ‘er.”_ he whispered to him with a smile.

“Shut. Now go before I make you both walk all the way to Winterfell.”

As the two left without another word they closed the doors behind them and Cregan sat beside the Tyrell girl. “So, are you finally ready to admit I beat you in that horse race all those years ago?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” she let out a quiet laugh. “I wanted to give you something.” from her palm emerged a small locket, encrusted in gold and with a small rose sigil on it, the chains holding the lock slowly clinked and shone from the sun’s rays. “Loras, Garlan, Willas and I all wanted to give this to you, but I was the one who suggested it.”

He took the locket from her hand, with a push of his finger on the sigil, the hinges on it opened up to reveal the inside, letters being carved into the metal. “Growing Strong.” Cregan read out loud.

“A memento, something to remember us by. I know that life in the North is-... difficult, but remember what grandmother always said.”

“ _A flower strong enough can grow even in the harshest of Winters._ ”

“Rather quaint don’t you think? Very optimistic for her as well.” she ran a hand through her hazel hair, shining nearly as much as locket from the Sun’s light.

“As well as objectively false.”

“It’s always the thought that counts.”

“I suppose you are right there.” he took another glance at the locket. The scribing inside it was engraved in a style that could only be described as ornate, as was the rest of the pendant. “Thank you Margaery. Once again it seems you enjoy leaving the best impressions.”

“Naturally, now come on. Father wishes to give you his final goodbyes as well, he has an entire little speech written up for you and everything.” she hopped up from the bed and clasped her hands from behind her back.

“And I’m sure it was Olenna who actually wrote up said speech.” Cregan followed suit and got up from the bed, putting the locket in the back pocket of his pants.

“Give him some credit, when he wants to, he has some good ideas here and there.”

“I will take your word for it. Now come, let’s not keep them waiting.” he had no ill will towards the Tyrell patriarch. He was a man of many virtues; some Cregan could even be bothered to point out. Yet in the end, he was glad for Mace Tyrell’s hospitality, for all of their hospitality. They took him in, raised him, and taught him as their own, all while not even flinching at his differences to them. This was of course the duty of any guardian towards their wards, but there were many in Westeros who were far worse off than he was when it came to becoming wards of foreign families.

Just as he reached for the handle of his doors, a sensation of touch came over his shoulder. “One more thing.” he heard Margaery murmur, and as Cregan turned around she wrapped her arms around him. The two had always been close, they were only two years apart in age with Margaery being the elder one of the two, yet it was in these times when Cregan could tell she was being the most honest. It was in these times when Cregan truly felt that the Tyrells were his second family.

“Stay safe, little brother. Remember to write whenever you can.” she whispered softly, any notion of coy playfulness left disappearing like leaves in the wind. “And please, no matter what the future holds, don’t forget about us.”

Cregan for the first time in years felt unsure. It was as if he was the little child again, taking his first steps out of the carriage in Highgarden. Just like that little child all those year ago, Margaery was there. Slowly his arms wrapped around the green dress, and he buried himself in the girls embrace.

“Don’t worry, I won’t. You have my word.”

* * *

The journey was long and more than arduous. For some four months Cregan and his band of 20 men journeyed from the lush green lands of the Reach towards the cold and snowy fields of the North. 10 guards watched over their caravan, two at the front, two at the rear, and the rest defending the wagon with all of their luggage and supplies as well as him alongside all of the other servants who came with him to Highgarden. Though they all rarely spoke directly to him, Cregan could feel that many of them began to see Highgarden as a new home as well. Some of the younger guards and servants even started families there, and chose to stay in the Reach with Cregan’s blessing, which was why they were reduced by a good 20 men or so.

Throughout their travels they stopped every now and again to resupply and spend the night at certain holdings with lords that would take them in. The further up north they would go, the more hospitable the lords became, Cregan noticed. It made sense, past the Neck and Moat Cailin, you would scarce find any lord or lady unwilling to host the second son of Eddard Stark in their halls. Yet perhaps the most lavish welcome was from his uncle Edmund and grandfather Hoster in Riverrun.

However, the flames of that feast paled in comparison to the warmth Cregan felt when he first saw Winterfell off in the horizon. Through his window he felt that cold northern wind hitting his skin. No matter how many years he spent in the warm summers of the Reach, a northerner will forever have his heart here in the North, with the cold wind blowing at this back.

A surge of emotions. Happiness, nostalgia, anxiety, all of them rushed through Cregan’s senses in but a few seconds, though he fought to not show any of them on his face.

Once they were in the boundaries of Winter Town, Cregan could hear Willy and Tor greeting relatives with shouts of reunion, alongside many of the other members of their party. No doubt many relatives of the retainers and servants who went with Cregan to the Reach were wondering if they would ever see their family members again. Cregan once asked himself that very same question. He remembered the night before he left Winterfell, crying, kicking and screaming until he fell unconscious from exhaustion, waking the next day in his mother’s arms.

It was not as if he did not come back to visit Winterfell at all, he had done so on six occasions during his time as ward of the Tyrells, but the journey was simply too long and costly to be done on a regular basis. His last visit had been 3 years ago, right after the birth of his little brother Rickon. Cregan wondered often if his siblings still remembered him. Every time he would come back, he would look more different than we he left, now would be yet another time he would come to Winterfell looking like a completely different person.

As the carriage drew further past the gates and into the main courtyard of Winterfell, Cregan saw his mother and father waiting there, not a day older than how he remembered them. His mother Catelyn with her auburn red hair, the same color as him and his siblings, save for Arya. His father, ever stoic and silent, stood as a statue, Cregan could scarce even see his breath, yet through his cold exterior, those same warm and loving eyes shone through.

Beside them was Maester Luwin, no matter how many times Cregan had come to visit and no matter how many times both he and his family changed, he was always the same. With grey eyes, a grey coat and his balding grey hair, the man blended with Winterfell’s stone walls and towers so much it was a miracle Cregan could even spot him from afar. Alongside the Maester, there was also the ever-stout Ser Rodrik Cassel, standing guard for House Stark even after all these years.

He got out of the carriage with reserved steps. Every time he would come back home, it was with the knowledge that it would not be forever, yet this time there would be no tearful goodbyes or inevitable leaves. This time, he truly was home.

“Mother, Father.” he came up to them both, nodding. Catelyn and Eddard looked at him with glances he had never seen before. Thoughts came rushing through his head. Has it truly been so long? Have they forgotten him? What he looks like?

Those thoughts almost became words through his lips had he not been stopped by his mother’s embrace. “Welcome home, my boy.” she practically jumped at him, holding the boy so tightly Cregan could scarcely breathe.

He locked eyes with his father, those same kind and tender eyes that saw him off so long ago, and through his mother’s auburn hair Cregan could see hints of a smile on his father’s face.

“We’ve been waiting for you son. Welcome back.”

“Thank you father.” Cregan said, hugging his mother tightly. Truly, the warmth of one’s home can beat even the coldest of Winters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1: The King's Arrival**

Three months he had been home now, within the cold walls of Winterfell, ancestral seat of all Starks. It was a strange experience, his family, his true family, were finally all around him. His brothers Robb, Jon, Bran and Rickon, they seemed most understanding of his situation, letting him get acquainted with his old home from a distance. His twin Sansa and sister Arya were of a different mindset however. Whatever chance they had they would torment him with endless questions. Sansa at least attempted to be discreet about it, often having some other reason to come to him and then just so happened to turn the conversation towards the topic of Highgarden. Arya had no restrictions however, though her questions more involved the knights and soldiers rather than the ladies and the nobility.

He laid there in his bed, trying to think back on everything that had happened ever since he came back, too much for only a few moments. Through flashes of memories though he recalled the most important parts. The King had announced coming to Winterfell, what for, Cregan did not ask. _‘Most likely part of some royal tour across the continent’_ he assumed. However one good thing about his twin pestering him is that he could learn enough from the gossip of others using her as the outlet. It would seem Jon Arryn has died, and with his death the Hand of the King’s seat lies empty. While his father may not suspect it at all, it was clear to almost everyone who the next choice was going to be. Why else would the King travel all the way this far up North?

Still, his contemplation and remembrance of the past soon came to a close, as he felt a small gust of wind hit his cheek followed soon by the touch of wet flesh, or rather, a wet snout. “What did I say about being on the bed?” Cregan murmured, his eyes still closed trying to still catch whatever sleep he could muster. Today would be a tiring day, yet his wolf’s hounding did not help.

The wet snout persisted however as a paw burrowed itself into Cregan’s sides. “Right, that’s enough from you.” he quickly grabbed him, arms moving swiftly from under the thick furs of his bed, and got the wolf off of him. “Honestly, I sometimes wonder if I should have just left you to Theon, you two would have been quite the charming bunch.”

With the cutting of his slumber upon him he stood staring face to face with his companion, Sif. Though Cregan would often refer to him as a simple wolf, the animal would soon become far stronger, faster and larger than any known one in Westeros, for it was not a wolf, it was a direwolf. Creatures from the far North, beyond the wall. And yet, they were found more south than ever recorded. A sign of fate some would say, an unfortunate accident others speculated, yet it mattered little to the Stark children. One by one the wolves were chosen amongst them, or rather, the wolves themselves chose their new masters, as if they themselves knew who they would bond with the most.

Sif may not have been the oldest of the litter, but he was by far the largest of them all, yet was also missing an eye, a scar perhaps from the boar that killed their mother. He seemed protective of the rest of his litter, a trait that suited his brother Robb well, and that was who Cregan thought the wolf would choose. It was to his surprise then when the bond between the two of them had been formed.

Cregan got up out of his bed and looked out the window. Though most days in the North it would be rather hard to tell the time of day it was particularly sunny this time around, a sign of harsher weather to come later no doubt. It was still early in the morning, yet Winterfell keep was as bustling with life as ever. Workers and guards did their daily duties, and from the courtyard Cregan could see his brothers Robb and Jon sparring with one another, with Ser Rodrik and Theon overseeing the ordeal. Inside his tower Maester Luwin was no doubt overseeing his scriptures and books so that everything is kept in order. And though he did his best not to be seen, Cregan easily spotted Bran climbing the ruins of the old first keep. _‘Your nimbleness will be the death of you one day brother.’_ Cregan thought, he knew well of his mother’s fear whenever Bran would perform such stunts, and he could not disagree in sharing those fears, yet when he thought of the countless idiotic stunts he would pull in Highgarden there was a bit of an understanding to his brother’s daredevil attitude.

“Right, I suppose I better get ready then.” he said to himself as Sif jumped back onto the bed. “And here I thought you were waking me up to get me ready for today. Suppose you just wanted the whole thing to yourself then.” the direwolf licked his snout and did a circle around the soft furs before laying down and falling into a deep slumber Cregan so desperately tried to regain.

_‘Damnable wolf.’_ he thought. _‘I’ll have to clean off all the hairs again.’_

But now he had larger obligations. As he put on all his clothes he made sure to make himself as presentable as possible. Though he always preferred the more simpler style, meeting a king is no small occasion, and so all of his family had fashioned special clothing just for this one event. His father was against it at first, “Appearances matter as much to Robert as bad wine.” he said, yet Cregan’s mother was the deciding factor in the end, as she was the one who took account of the household appliances and duties most of the time.

_‘Not that it will mean much, we’ll all be under six feet of furs by midday. Still, I suppose it is the thought that counts.’_

Today would be a long day, as would the next few no doubt, but he would have to weather this coming storm, and hope that he still remembered how to act amongst other nobility.

* * *

They all stood in attendance, with the entire court of Winterfell behind them. His father Eddard at the head with Catelyn right beside him. Afterwards came the children, Robb stood right beside the two, with Cregan and Sansa to his left, after them came Arya, Bran and Rickon. Just like he had predicted they were all covered in furs and cloaks to keep the cold out, yet it paled in comparison to the Southerners currently riding in, all packed tight as if Winter had already come.

A retinue of guardsmen strode on their horses, their armor shining in pure white unlike anything he had ever seen before. Like their plates, both their horses and capes were pure white as well. It was clear to all who these men were, knights of the Kingsguard, the greatest in all the realm. From Corlys Velaryon to Duncan the Tall to even the infamous Kingslayer, rare was the one in Westeros who did not know of the Kingsguard and their famous warriors.

After them came the royal bearers, with both banners of the houses Baratheon and Lanisster beside one another. These were not Kingsguard, merely retinue soldiers from the Household, yet that did not make their armour any less unique. Northern armor, like most of their clothing, was simple, strong, and sturdy. Iron plate over boiled leather that kept both the cold out and any weapons from gutting you, mostly. Theirs was far more ornate, with sigils, plate, colors and capes, it seemed each one could be a member of some noble family or another from their equipment alone.

Yet the soldiers in armor paled to the simple carriage that was drawn in after them. Ornate and disgustingly decorated, it truly was a cart fit for a king. Yet the one who descended from it did not fit any sort of comparison. A man so full of girth and fat you could have easily replaced him as a less hairy boar, yet that was not a boar, it was the King of the Seven Kingdoms, Robert Baratheon.

_‘I never thought of my father as quite the liar.’_ he said internally, remembering the dozen or so stories Eddard would tell him in his youth of the Stag King. A man with the strength of ten men, who slew Rhaegar Targaryen single-handedly with his mighty warhammer. This was not that man, that much could be said for certain.

Yet despite that, they all kneeled before the king. First the Starks and then Winterfell. The King walked up to his father without a word, slowly but surely he signaled the Warden of the North to stand. The two stared at each other for a moment, and the entirety of Winterfell held its breath.

“You’ve grown fat.” the King said simply, eyeing Eddard up and down.

His father took a look at the King’s gut, protruding from the thick furs like a tumor. “I could say the same for yourself.”

If the courtyard was silent, now would be the time everyone had dropped dead. Yet soon it was filled with the laughter of the two men, and the relieved sigh of everyone else. They hugged one another like two brothers long lost, and for all Cregan knew they were.

“Cat!” the King hugged Cregan’s mother with the jollyness of an old grandfather, nearly lifting Catelyn off her feet before turning back to Eddard. “Nine years, Ned! Where the hell have you been?”

“Guarding the North for you, your Grace.” it was rare to see him so happy, Cregan could scarce remember the last time his father had a full smile on his face. What are friends for in the end, but to give you that smile?

“Of course you have, freezing your arse off more like.” the King bellowed.

It was then he noticed the Queen exit out of the carriage as well. While the King wasted no time on getting off himself, she and her children had waited until wooden steps were placed by the door to get off. _‘A blue blood through and through.’’_ he thought. Still, the contrast between the red-faced and puffy king, lined with furs and leather just a size too big for even him, while his wife stood as graceful and as elegant as anyone would expect. The small girl and boy that followed behind her, both with the same blonde hair and green eyes as her, made Cregan notice that there was one other child missing, the Prince, Jeoffrey his name was.

It did not take long for him to scour his eyes amongst the horses to finally spot him. A youth around the same age as him and with similar long-styled hair that reached just above their necks. They both seemed to take from their mothers in terms of features, as the Prince carried with him the same gold blonde hair and emerald green eyes as Cregan did his mother’s auburn tones and blue eyes. Unlike his father however, the boy was dressed far more elegantly, while still having the same amount of furs on him to keep away the cold.

The man next to him however seemed to be the utter opposite. While the Prince appeared to be a shining example of noble elegance and majesty the man in armor lacked both grace and any sense of chivalry. He knew him well, Sandor Clegane, the Hound. That man was no knight, and it showed, not with his appearance, but by the pure posture and aura he exuded. That man was a killer through and through.

“You must be Robb.” his thoughts were interrupted by the King’s words, shaking his brothers hand firmly as Robb stood stoically and did the same.

“And you the twins I’ve heard about.” he eyed the pair next to one another.

“Cregan.” he bowed his head.

“Sansa.” she replied in kind.

“The pretty one and the grumpy one I see, you two would make a fine pair next to my wife and brother-in-law.” Sansa smiled gently at the King’s words while Cregan did not react, he wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not, not to mention that he never grew accustomed nor had any notion of talking to the King himself so informally. Thankfully however, the King soon moved on to their other siblings Arya, Bran and Rickon.

“And what’s your name?”

“Arya.” the girl said simply, with a hint of hesitation. No doubt having the same confusion as them, though it would more likely be the fact she was preoccupied with other matters, such as finding Tyrion Lannister, the Imp as she called him.

“Arya, and you?”

“Bran.” the second youngest Stark spoke with a bit more confidence in his voice.

“Bran eh, show me your muscles lad.” the boy eagerly did so, showing his arms through the clothing and furs causing the King to chuckle. “Ah, you’ll be a soldier.” he ruffled the boys head and did the same with little Rickon before moving past them all.

“Come Ned, take me to the Crypt. I want to pay my respects.”

His father seemed ready to comply before the Queen cut in. “We’ve been travelling for months love, surely the dead can wait.”

The King however paid his wife no heed, choosing to not even acknowledge her. Ned looked back for a second, as if asking for permission, before nodding his head to the Queen in apologies no doubt and following Robert Baratheon to the crypts.

While the Royals were being shown their rooms, the courtyard was quickly dispersed, with the Stark siblings all going to prepare themselves for the evening to come, and it would no doubt be a long one.

Yet as they were going back to their rooms he could feel his twin's eyes on him, a grin just at the tip of her lips.

“What is it now Sansa?” Cregan sighed.

“The King called me the pretty one.” she huffed in enjoyment.

“Please, he was obviously referring to me.”

“As if!”

“I’ve seen the way you look when you wake up sister. Shaggy Dog has more grace.”

* * *

**Later that Evening…**

The feast had already been planned and in preparation weeks before the King’s arrival, and it showed;

First was the food, a menagerie of different cods, fish, meats, beverages and sweets served throughout the night. Second, the music, his father had paid a troupe of performers to come and entertain them, and it seemed the King rather liked them, that is whenever he wasn’t trying to grope one of the serving maids. Thirdly, the guests, usually at feasts it was the nobles at the front and the household at the back, yet as the night went on more and more lines began to blur until eventually Lannister, Stark and Baratheon men all ate and drank with one another.

Save for the eating, drinking and singing, there was also the dancing. Before they got too drunk to stand on their feet, the sons and daughters, alongside the fathers and mothers, all joined around the fire and danced merrily, mostly. The King had at one point danced with Catelyn, perhaps the only time he had actually held back any foolishness, and Eddard did the same with the Queen, yet the only woman who the King did not dance with was his own wife. Soon after came the children. Sansa danced with Prince Joffrey, while both Robb and Cregan traded turns with the princess Myrcella.

While he was no master, his time at Highgarden proved beneficial for a variety of things. Surprisingly, it was Mace Tyrell who was the one that taught him how to dance ‘properly’. And for what it was worth, Cregan had finally been proven wrong by him at something. _“You’ll never have a lady pay attention to you if you can’t lead her on the dance floor.”_ he told him. It was rather awkward, the girl was a hare’s younger than him by about two years yet was significantly shorter by about a head’s length. It was only today that Cregan had realized just how tall he had become, surpassing even his brother by a few inches. While Sansa could dance happily with her little prince, who was just tall enough to be keeping eye level with her, Cregan struggled to not slouch and relieve the princess of having to stay on her toes the entire time, quite literally.

The younger prince Tommen and his brothers Rickon and Bran fared quite better, walking and sitting with as much royal stature as they could muster, but were soon forgotten about save for little Arya who had spent most of her time trying to get food in Sansa’s hair. Much to the chagrin of their mother, and Sansa’s eternal scorn.

The rest of the evening carried on as any feast would. The food soon turned cold, the drink sparse, and the fire began to fade. Soon enough the children were sent to bed, save for Robb who was considered old enough to stay up quite later. The King was not considered fit enough to stay up late however, as he was blind drunk and passed out shortly after his tenth barrel of wine and fifth serving maid.

Cregan slipped away fairly unnoticed from the feast, deciding it was better to get some rest early than witness the king's antics any further. On his way back however, he ran into his brother Jon, and alongside the infamous and apparently illusive _Imp_ that Arya would not shut up about.

“Hello Jon.” he greeted his black-haired sibling, a gust of breath emanating from the cold. Jon seemed surprised to see him, turning his head quickly with a shook breath. “Trying to sneak away from your lordly duties?”

“I could say the same for you.” Jon replied. “Besides, lady Stark said it would be best for me to stay in the back. There’s no room for a bastard in a King’s feast. I don’t think anyone will notice me not being there.”

“I noticed, Robb noticed, father noticed.”

“And I am sure lady Catelyn noticed as well, something which she is much grateful for.” a voice emanated from the darkness, with a small figure cloaked in shadow accompanying it.

“Tyrion Lannister, I presume?” Cregan finally paid notice to the dwarf’s presence.

“The one and only.” he raised his leather flash before taking of swig of it, no doubt filled with alcohol.

“A pleasure.” he said, trying to be as courteous as possible. It was not the dwarf in front of him that was the problem, it was the problem that he reeked of alcohol stronger than the entire hall where the feast was going down. “Though I did expect to see you at the feast as well.”

“Dwarves are fine guests for feasts as jesters and funnymen, I’m a rather depressing site when drunk however, though Robert would always beg to differ.”

“Then you have fine company with my brother. Keep him from the brothels though Ser Lannister.”

“You are quite the kind noble boy aren’t you Stark. There’s a rare one in Westeros who so openly addresses their bastards with such...” the dwarf stopped for a moment to think of the right words, or perhaps he was just beginning to doze off.

“Humanity?”

“I was going to say decency but that is a rarity as well I suppose.”

“I’m glad you two have found it comforting talking about me as if I’ve already disappeared.” Jon cut in.

“If you’ve something to say Jon, you’re free to say it. There’s nothing but mice here.”

“Indeed Snow, out with it.”

It seemed as if he was going to say something as the two encouraged him, yet stopped himself. _‘Ever the discontent one you are Jon, yet you never wish to bring it up. Content does not match you.’_

“Well I am sure then that you two have much more to talk about. I shall be retiring to my chambers. Sif will begin shedding a new cloak on my furs if I take any longer.”

“Ah yes, I had nearly forgotten that you Starks have adopted a litter of those devilish direwolves.” Tyrion Lannister said, before turning his head to Jon. “Have no fear then Snow, if anything is proof of your heritage, it's the fact you have one and Greyjoy hasn’t.”

He shot a glare at the Imp before going back to his half-brother. “Sleep well Cregan.”

“Yes Stark, sleep well. I have a sense that you will have quite the awakening in the coming days.”

“Pay no heed to the dwarf, he’s been telling everyone that the entire night.”

“Of course. Take care, both of you.”

While he had no doubt that something big was coming, he did not know if any of it would affect him directly. _‘What am I saying, of course it will, it will affect all of us.’_ he thought. A storm is brewing, one the Starks cannot weather in Winterfell alone. Yet that still posed the question, when would the King finally tell his father why he had come here? Who knows, perhaps he already has. Eddard Stark always did have a knack for holding his head firm under stress.

He thought back to something his mother had told him many years ago. _‘You may have my eyes and my hair Cregan, but I don’t think any of my children have the same winter in their heart as you do. On that, you are more Stark than I will ever be.’_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 2: There and Back Again…**

“I see.” Cregan sighed, trying to comprehend the news that was practically spit on him by his father and Maester Luwin. Putting two fingers on his temple, he slunked back into his chair and contemplated. He was not sure of what to do, was he to scream, to yell at his father for telling him, to run to the stables and grab the nearest horse to join the Night’s Watch? _‘No, too long a journey, I’d most likely freeze to death first.’_

“No need to put on a brave face child.” Luwin rattled the collar that was his chain for a moment before producing a small pendant from his many pockets, the same pendant Margaery had given him. “We all saw that you were rather nervous that night, and perhaps that was why you dropped this.”

“Me having a locket fall from by pocket is a sign of nervousness? I’d hate to imagine what a mental breakdown would be then, Maester.”

Luwin let out a smile while Eddard carefully observed his son’s expression. “I have never known you to be clumsy Cregan, ever since you came out of Lady Stark’s womb cats have competed to be as nimble as you have.”

“You have not seen me on horseback then Maester. A cat would at least be able to get on the saddle without slipping, probably.”

“Cregan…” his father interrupted the two causing them to turn their gaze towards him. “Tell me honestly son, what do you feel of this arrangement?”

“I feel as if I must marry this princess out of necessity, not out of duty, to my House nor to my family.” Cregan said without a second thought. In truth however, he was more than mixed on his feelings on the matter. Perhaps it was too rash of him to cast judgements right away, he did not even know how his twin had responded to the news of her betrothal to Joffrey, though knowing her Cregan was surprised the sounds of shoes jumping on floorboards did not wake Winterfell. “Just as you must be feeling pressured to take the position of Hand.”

“Absolutely not.” Eddard responded as fast as his son had. “You have no obligations to accept this Cregan, it is an offer, nothing more and nothing less. Sansa has made her thoughts on the matter clear, she shall marry the prince when they both come of age.”

“An offer, father? Just as King Robert _offered_ you the pin of the Hand?” He did not know why he was trying to goad his father like this. Perhaps it was merely frustration, perhaps anger that he knows the real reason why his father was ‘offering’ him this.

“That is a different matter entirely.” Maester Luwin was the one to respond entirely. “The title of Hand of the King is a prestigious position, one Jon Arryn had held honorably and with dutiful conscientiousness. Your father, just as you, was offered that very same title. It is the highest honor, one no one who is sound of mind would be willing to reject.” As Maester Luwin continued to explain with what he was sure to be the best of intentions, Cregan did not break his sight from his father, eyes piercing into what semblance of character or soul he might have.

It is said that Starks are born with ice in their veins, and that only with age do they thaw thanks to their blood running strongly. If that was the case, then his father had nothing but water for blood, only continuing to keep the ice from melting. Yet in a flash his thoughts changed as he realized what he had truly been implying to himself. That memory of when he had just come back, how his father looked at him with as much happiness a parent could muster for their child. That smile when he had seen his old friend after so many years. There was warmth and kindness and character in Eddard Stark, yet was there any in his son?

“Maester Luwin-” his father interrupted the old Maester. “Leave us for a moment, I wish to speak in private with my son.”

“Of course, my Lord.” It was an odd request, to ask a Maester to exit their own assigned chambers, yet Luwin complied willingly and with haste.

Once out of the room, Eddard rose up from his chair that stood opposite from Cregan, a large oak desk separating the two. He came closer to the boy, being just shy of standing right in front of the still sitting Stark child, and leaned on the desk. “Cregan, I will tell you this.” his hand twitched, as if trying to reach out. “When my brother died, his betrothal to your mother was made forfeit by King Aerys Targaryen.”

“He had been on his way to Riverrun when he received the news of your sister’s kidnapping, yes I know.” Cregan spotted a small shift in Eddard’s brows.

“Yes.” he said solemnly. “And soon I myself was faced with a choice, one I could nary refuse. I would marry Catelyn, while Jon Arryn would marry her sister Lysa. With this act we secured an alliance with the Tully’s, and by right the armies of the Riverlands.” Cregan thought on why his father was telling him this, it was rare for him to recount any of his experiences during the Rebellion. “This act was required of me to secure the alliance of our two houses, yet Jon Arryn did not need to marry Catelyn’s sister.”

“I thought Jon Arryn was childless? Would he have not needed a marriage to keep the line going in the Vale?”

“Indeed, yet even so he could have easily married a noblewoman from the Vale itself, or if not the line would have fairly passed on to one of his cousins. Yet that is not the point I was trying to make. What I wish to tell you is that Jon Arryn had a choice, and if he had not chosen as he did that day, perhaps he would have picked another woman as his wife later on, perhaps that wife could have even been a far better choice for him.”

“So you are saying I have a deciding choice on the matter. That I should reject this offer right here and now and perhaps a far better maiden can one day come along and capture my heart.”

Eddard sighed, leaning his arms on the desk before continuing. “It was war Cregan, one we could not surrender or run away from. We knew that when this was all over our houses would either survive or be burned as my father was. Your mother and I, we had consolidated that marriage out of necessity, but even still it did not mean a child would be produced before I died out in some field by a stray arrow or a lance to the neck. So there was another precaution taken, one that was not completely necessary, yes, but that would secure the Riverland’s loyalty even if I were to die. We marched off before the banners for the Riverlands would be called, knowing that if anything it would take weeks before they were ready to face the King’s forces head on. By marrying his other daughter to Jon, Lord Tully bound himself to not only the North, but to the Vale, both realms of which were already together against King Aerys’ forces. This meant that in either case, his banners would be for us no matter who died or which marriage became null and void.”

Eddard seemed to stop just as Cregan realized what his father wished to tell him. “So I am to be treated as a spare then.” though his words may have sounded contemptible, his tone gave no sign of anger or resentment, rather, of understanding. “Should Sansa’s prince ever die, I am to assure that our two houses of Stark and Baratheon stay together.”

“To put it as bluntly as I can, yes.” Eddard said, his voice hollow. “I will not try and coddle you son. This marriage would be advantageous to us in many ways. But we are not at war, and the Prince, nor Robert, is not going to die any time soon. Westeros is at peace, more peaceful than it has been in many years. If you do not wish this, I won’t force you, nor will anyone else, I will make sure of that. Come time and age I’m sure you can find a woman to be your wife, and your mother and I will not tell you anything against it.”

Cregan sighed and once more began to contemplate. In a moment of short-sightedness he began to speak his thoughts aloud. “I don’t suppose if the princeling dies the throne would pass on to Myrcella?” he asked with only slight sarcasm in his voice, to which his father bobbed his head side to side in disagreement. “Shame, would have liked a go at life as King of Westeros.”

“It’s nice to see you’ve gained a sense of humor over the years at least.” In a way, this was the most his father and he had interacted ever since Cregan arrived back in Winterfell. While his brothers kept their distance in order to help him re-adjust himself back to life in the North, and his mother and sisters coddled and questioned him to no end, Eddard Stark kept his son at far more than arm’s length the entire time. They would rarely speak, for weeks on end not even a word could be exchanged between the two.

“May I ask you something else father?” he looked up from his contemplation back to his father’s face, who nodded in silent response. “Did you ever love a woman before you married mother?” His question was a simple one, in hindsight, of course a lad of any age would have a first love, yet rarely it would be the one that man would eventually marry.

“I did.” Eddard answered simply, a solemn look coming about his face. “And you lad? I know of that Tyrell girl Lord Mace had, do you have any feelings for her?”

“As much feelings as I have for Sansa, or Arya, or mother. She is as a sister to me, family in all but blood, they all are.” he got up from his chair, the blood finally rushing back to his feet. “Don’t worry father, when the time comes Robert Baratheon will be leading his daughter off to marry me in the Sept of King’s Landing. And when that time comes, I will do so with as much a smile as I can muster.” he pulled his cheeks up to try and imitate a smile, his teeth revealing with as unnatural an expression as one can have.

His father chuckled drily. “Keep yourself to stoic silence Cregan, your mother says it suits the both of us far more than it should.”

“As you wish father. If there is not anything else…”

“Go, think on what I have told you, there is no rush, and when the time comes we both can go and tell the King your decision. Robert is not one to hold grudges for such trifle things, you needn’t worry.”

“My decision is as I said. Next time I see the princess I shall try to leave a bigger and better impression. Most likely though I should practice my dancing first.” he rambled on almost without thought, putting a finger to his chin. “I should start right now, thinking about it.”

“Don’t let me keep you son.”

* * *

He entered his chambers to find Sif lying on the bed, lazily as ever. Yet truly, that was the least of his worries. With tired steps he walked over to the bed and sat to the sides, letting out a large sigh as he did so. “It would seem the dwarf was right after all.”, he was not one for superstition, but if he were to find Tyrion Lannister now there would be little to stop him from slapping that smug face right off.

As he slunk further into the bed’s soft frame he felt his wolf sniffing at his face. “What now boy? You want me off the bed is that it?” Sif licked his nose to his master's words, a response the direwolf was want to do often, after a moment of silence however he jumped off the bed and sat in front of Cregan, staring directly at the boy.

“I had thought that my stay in the South was over, yet it seems fate does not wish to see this Stark in Winterfell Sif.” he spoke softly to the wolf, rubbing the soft fur of his neck with both hands and lightly squishing the animal's face. “I am to become a prince boy. The King wishes to see our houses together, doubly so it would seem.” Sif once more licked his nose. “Though that’s probably of no importance to you. You’ll still be getting a bone and some meat every evening. Don’t suppose you know how to dance do you?”

The wolf huffed as its tail swayed left and right. _‘Of course, what else could I expect from you. At least Shaggy Dog has the strength of will to bark at the horses every morning.’_ He let go of the wolf’s face and fell back onto the bed. The scent of wolf’s fur was pungent to say the least, yet Cregan had different things on his mind.

Thoughts of Margaery and Loras, of Willas and Garlan, came on his mind. He remembered the years they spent together, but more importantly he remembered one night in particular. Him and Margaery talked about who they would have liked to marry, people who were alive and are still alive they would take as their partner. Margaery talked at length of potential choices, from Aemon the Dragonknight to Jaime Lannister, never before did she remind him so much of his twin Sansa. Yet when it came his turn Cregan’s mind went blank. There were numerous famous women throughout Westeros’ history, both living and dead, yet no matter what no name could truly pass his lips and it be truthful at all.

That is to say, all but one.

* * *

It was a cold and cloudy morning that the Starks found themselves in the courtyard once more. The King had come and now he was returning back to the capital, with Eddard Stark as his new Hand. Along with him will come his children, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Cregan, all set to and ready to traverse this realm they once called home, all but one.

He saw as a gust of breath came out his mouth, mornings in the North were perhaps the greatest part of waking up for him. It was not the scenery or beautiful weather, that was for sure, but he liked the cold, it felt… pleasant. But on a day like this, the cold only served to double the bitter feeling in his mouth. The evening before he had thought about what he was doing, _truly_ thought about it. He had lived in Highgarden for so long, it would make no difference for him whether or not he would wake up every day in a sweat or in a chill, it was the people he was worried about.

His mother, Robb and Rickon would stay behind. Rickon was still too young for any kind of travel, despite his many objections, while Robb stayed to keep watch of Winterfell, proper training for the future Warden of the North. Mother did not wish for Eddard to leave, same as him, yet she accepted it all the same, with far more grace and honor than Cregan himself could ever muster.

The wind picked up a gust as Cregan’s gaze turned to his father, saying his final goodbyes. He checked within his arms if they were all still there under the cloak, the rattle of small wood among one another was the answer. _‘Good, Gods pray had I forgotten them.’_

Once his father was finished saying his goodbyes, Cregan did the same, his mother embracing him with an iron grip stronger than any wolf’s bite. “Be safe, child. Look after your siblings, Seven know they won’t do it themselves.”

“I will mother.” he said simply. There was little more he could say, he had gotten so used to this over the years, thinking there would be a last time was simply foolish, even for him. Looking down towards his little brother, still clutching at his mother’s skirt, he pulled out a small carved wooden sigil. “Here, I made something for you.” his words were spoken softly, as if trying to not scare Rickon away from him.

The youngest Stark slowly reached out his hands to grab the carving. “Every time I would come back home, or leave, I would always give everyone one of these.”

“What is it?” Rickon asked.

“It’s Shaggy Dog.” The carving was made of dark oak, resembling the direwolf’s own coat of fur, or at least the closest he could make it out to be. “Do you like it?”

Rickon stared at the little carved symbol of the direwolf, his fingers running through the different layers of the wooden figure. For a moment Cregan began to fear the child was going to simply throw it away, but thankfully his little brother was of a far more kinder heart than that. Clutching it close to his chest, Rickon nodded in response. It felt almost as if a horse’s worth of weight had been lifted from his mind, yet that was only one down, there were three more he needed to give out.

“And before I forget.” he reached into his cloak once more, this time facing his mother, who stared at Cregan with a look of incredulous curiosity. From his other hand he pulled out yet another carving, this one of a rose, each petal meticulously carved one after the other. “You had always told me to bring flowers from Highgarden, since it was such a long journey I don’t think they could have ever survived that long, so I thought on something close.

Like Rickon, Catelyn took her sons work with both hands and examined it as if it was a piece of priceless jewelry. A melting smile came onto her face, one of happiness and joy, one Cregan was far too worried of how little he saw it. “It’s wonderful.” was all she managed to muster. It was bittersweet to see his mother like this, as it often was whenever he would leave Winterfell, yet this time it was not only him leaving.

“I’ve still to say my goodbyes to Robb, where is he?” Cregan asked, looking around for the elder Stark child.

“In the stables, most likely helping Jon with the horses.” Eddard responded as he put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Go, we have more than enough time before departing.”

He nodded, and gave one last goodbye to his mother and youngest brother. On his lips, he felt a hint of a smile begin to form, yet smiles were never meant to be for sad occasions, so Cregan fought it back with all the strength, both mental and physical, he could bring about. Soon after he was on his way towards Winterfell’s inner stables. It was where most of the Household kept their steeds, yet it was kept separate from most other servant’s horses as those were meant more for pulling wagons than being ridden.

Across his way he came about many people, from all three houses of Stark, Lannister and Baratheon. Despite marrying into it, the Lannisters still seemed to hold some sway over the King’s household guard, or perhaps it was the Queen who dictated such things, Cregan did not know. Alongside them was also Jory Cassel, alongside his uncle Rodrik he was perhaps the most loyal of House Stark’s retainers, a good man, if a bit brash at times.

There were also the two brothers of Winter Town, Willy and Tor, who seemed to have gotten used to being servants meant for travel.

“Ready for yet another journey you two?” he called out to the brothers.

“It would seem so m’lord. Shame really, I had just gotten used to freezing my arse off back here, now I’ll have to get used to sweating it off in the South again.” Willy said, giving a wry smile.

“And I’m sure every drop of that sweat will be made with hard work and determination.”

“As expected of Cregan Stark’s two personal manservants.”

He patted the two on the shoulder as they continued with their work of carrying what more supplies the wagons could carry. It would seem those two were bound to Cregan as much as a fly is to a pile of shit, but at least these two flies might prove more than helpful to him. King’s Landing was not as simple a place as Winterfell is, here in the North, everyone knows who they are, what they do, who they know, not there however. It’s good then that those two have been born liars since the day they met the young Stark.

In the stables, it was as much of a sight as he could imagine. Jon and Robb were giving their final goodbyes, embracing one another as brothers did, there was no black blood between them, in their eyes, Jon was as much Stark as Robb was Snow. He pondered if Cregan could ever think of it that way. No matter how close he would speak with Jon, no matter how much he referred to him as ‘brother’, there would always be a wall between the two of them, one that could not be mended or fixed in a simple few months. And it seemed that now, it would possibly never be repaired.

Jon was to join the Night’s Watch, that much was certain for everyone, no matter how much those around him objected. Eddard did not fight his son’s decision, as he often wouldn’t, yet this one was not a simple hunting trip or bout in Winter Town, it was a life-long commitment, an oath to something far greater than any of them. And one that could not be omitted.

“I see you two have readied up.” he interrupted his brothers from a tearful goodbye.

“Aye, come to say your farewells?” Robb asked, a solemn smile on his face.

“I have, but for you. Jon I will bid goodbye later.”

“Then by no means let me disturb you, Lord Stark.” Jon joked, bowing dramatically before the boy younger two years than him. As he seemed ready to leave then, Robb did not stop him, but Cregan did.

“Oh toss it Jon, stay here with us for once, will you? That doesn’t mean I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Well then by all means say it little brother, we wouldn’t want to keep the Lions and Stag waiting.” Robb commented.

“Here.” he pulled out one more carving, this time of Robb’s wolf Grey Wind. This one he had Maester Luwin directly help with, as Cregan wished to have every single detail down just right. Rather unsurprisingly, a man who had spent most of his life cutting up and patching corpses and still living people was rather good with a carving knife.

Robb looked at the carving, the same as Rickon and their mother had, running his finger through the wood. Cregan could see Jon eyeing the wolf’s head as well, yet as always he did not mention it, and quickly returned back to his same shadowed self that looked as if he thought he was not worthy of such a memento. If there ever was such a thing as too much selfless humility, it lied in Jon Snow, however that humility was often touched by an overshadowed hope that one day it might reward him somehow. That one day, he would find his purpose in life. If that purpose was to be in the Night’s Watch, then there was little Cregan could do to stop him.

“You’ve gotten better.” Robb stated, the smile on his lips growing just that one small bit lighter.

“I’ve had time to practice. And practice makes perfect after all, does it not?”

Robb continued to look at the gift his brother had made for him, it seemed like he had done a good job this time. Or perhaps it was because this one would be his last gift the two would probably exchange between one another. _‘We shall see one another, that is certain. Yet when that time comes, Robb will most likely be Lord of Winterfell, and I shall be a prince with no titles. Better that way, I’ll not be made a pretender by some lowlife plotter.’_ he thought.

Jon’s vision quickly became distracted by something else as he looked out to the stables towards Winterfell’s blacksmith, Mikken. “Right, I’ll have to leave you two for now.”

“Matters more important than family?” Cregan asked, a drop of sarcasm in his tone mixed with genuine curiosity as to what Jon’s answer would be.

“Family is the reason I have to leave.” he explained rather vaguely before heading out.

“I’ve never known him to be the abrupt leaver type.” Cregan commented to his remaining brother.

“You haven’t lived with him for this long.”

“True enough, and it seems I’ll not have the chance to.”

“Aye…” Robb paused for a moment, before wrapping his arm around Cregan’s neck, bringing him closer. “Keep them safe down there, I may be acting as Lord of Winterfell now, but down there is your domain.”

“And what makes you so sure?”

“Because you’ve lived with a family known for their less than reputable standing amongst the realm. At least in recent years.”

“I suppose you are right in that regard. And don’t worry, I’ve already assured half of Winterfell of the exact same thing. Father can handle himself, but Sansa, Arya and Bran will be kept under watch tighter than they ever were here.”

“Ever the eagle eye you are brother. I’m sure they are in more than safe hands.” he let go of his neck, letting Cregan breathe easily once more. “And as for you, remember, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Yes, well…” he rubbed his neck on the red marks of his skin from Robb’s leather, “... I don’t think Theon will be coming with us, and I was never too fond of you beating his teeth out with the practice swords.”

“True, waste of good wood that is.”

He was glad at least that his elder brother tried keeping in good spirits. It was rather depressing to see Winterfell in as much of a gloomful atmosphere, more than usual at least. Save for the Southerners and his younger siblings, all were rather doubtful this journey to King’s Landing would prove any good. Cregan felt it as well, yet as Robb said, he was perhaps the best one of them to come along with their father, if anything to keep him from losing his head due to some honor-filled speech to the King of how visiting the whorehouse is not befitting for Robert. Though in all likelihood the King would be used to that by now.

The morning passed as any other would, save for the bustling of wheels of horses leaving the gates. It was the most filled with life the Stark home had been in some time, yet like always that life slowly moved on to far greener pastures, and the residents of the North were left to continue with their daily life.

As he clumsily mounted his horse and rode alongside his father out of their ancestral home, Cregan rode in silence as men and women from Winter Town cheered the King’s caravan. For all reasons still, Robert was a beloved King, far better than Aerys in every regard, and the people loved him for it. This time, the King had ridden out of the keep on his own Warhorse, a fine Crownland steed befitting a King known for his martial prowess, yet Cregan thought it was perhaps only to sustain his weight.

As they did with the King, Eddard Stark was also met with thunderous cheers and goodbyes. He had been the lord of Winterfell for so long now, ruling justly and with a level of fairness rare to find in nobility. Yet ever the stoic, Eddard paid them no heed, doing his duty and looking forward towards his King.

Soon enough, Winterfell became less a home and more a keep from afar, and even later a speck in the distance, until eventually disappearing to the endless landscape of the North. Their journey had begun, and Cregan could already feel the cold wind he had loved so dearly that morning leaving him as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 3: The Riverside Bleeds**

Westeros was not a place meant for travel. A large and hostile continent, its peoples were relegated to cities and villages since the coming of the Andals. Whatever noble lords, merchants or caravans deemed it worthy of their time to wander through the continent, it was most certainly always with a retinue of guards, trained or otherwise. It was not simply Westeros’ cruel mother known as nature that would hunt its inhabitants however. Bandits, highwaymen, thieves and scoundrels, unwilling participants in what little grasp of society their people had. Cregan had wondered just how many highway bands and arrows to the neck he had avoided just for being part of this grand King’s party.

It was a rather grim mindset, constantly pondering on every which way you could die, and he could not deny that he had similar thoughts on his way to Winterfell nearly a year ago now. _‘Keeping yourself keen at all times will not do much save for predicting the knife slicing your throat seconds before it happens.’_ He repeated Olenna’s words in his head, a snide remark at the child always seeming on-edge and aware, to the point of it seeming like a paranoia. The old woman did little to help him with his fears however, yet over time she did manage to guide Cregan to use that awareness into something useful. Listening.

He sat on a finely adorned wooden chair, overlooking the open window in his chambers. A suitable room, far less luxurious than what he was used to in Highgarden and not as rough as his own in Winterfell, yet more than enough for him. Between the four walls of his, Cregan sat in silence, patiently listening in to the sounds of the outside world as life began to spring forth. His wolf Sif lied lazily on Cregan’s bed, no doubt tired from all the pacing around his chambers he had to do. Still, it was getting harder and harder to justify having him stay in Cregan’s chambers. As more time passed, the direwolves seemed to be growing faster and faster, with only a few months passing, they had effectively grown to the size of an average wolf, yet personality wise they were still more than cubs.

Outside, the workers of Castle Darry continued with their business. He heard the pushing of carts, chatter amongst the metalworkers, smiths and shiners working on replacing the irons on horses, guards talking in groups of the next card game or night at the tavern. Somewhere farther, he heard the neighing of horses and barking of dogs, the houndmaster must be leading Lord Darry’s muts out of their pens for the day. Meanwhile, a crow was cawing just outside his window on a nearby tree branch. Cregan leaned out of his chair to see if he could see it, but the crow flew away just at the moment he had managed to spot it, leaving the branch swaying up and down for a few moments as leaves slowly scattered from its reach.

“I suppose it didn’t want to be seen…” he murmured to himself, falling back into the soft furs of his chair. A knock came from his door, “Come in.” Cregan replied.

“M’lord...” Tor slowly entered, a studded grey doublet and a pair of hosed pants laid neatly across his arm. “Your clothes, as requested.”

“Well done Tor, you can place them on the bed over there.”

“Yes m’lord.” For his brutish and rough appearance, Tor was far more meticulous and precise than most anyone in Winter Town could give him credit for, save for perhaps Willy.

He was afraid at first how the direwolves would react to people constantly being around them, much more how they would react to them. Sansa agreed upon keeping Lady in the kennels along with the other dogs upon the Queen’s command, layered with honey in the form of a polite request of course. With Sif it was not quite as much a bother, the wolf kept himself to Cregan’s chambers or by his side whenever they would leave anywhere, he may not be as well behaved as Lady, but he was far better than Nymeria or Summer. Arya and Bran were of a different mindset however, and would often sneak into the kennels to let their wolves out and have them follow the Stark children around. Speaking of…

“Have you seen my sister anywhere Tor?” he asked the barrel of a man who was in the process of neatly laying out his clothing for the day.

“I have m’lord.” Tor replied simply. A man of few words as always.

“Where?” he continued to pry.

“Out with the prince m’lord. Seems they’ve goin out on a walk.”

“How quaint. It’s nice to see she has been hard at work with improving further relations between House Stark and Baratheon.”

“I do not think that is the reason m’lord.”

“Willy will have to teach you sarcasm one day Tor.” he put a hand to his chin, thinking if he himself had been neglecting his own duties. Though perhaps it would be a bit demeaning to refer to princess Myrcella that way. Ever since that dance in Winterfell, the two exchanged nary a word between one another. Yet that would have to wait unfortunately, “And what of Arya and Bran Tor? Where are they?”

“Lady Arya is in the courtyard right now m’lord. Teaching Nimmy-... er, Nymeria, some new tricks.” Tor explained, yet Cregan couldn’t help but hold back a chuckle, the direwolves had grown a fondness for the young man, and he to them it would seem. “And Bran said he would come up to meet you now m’lord.”

“Now?” he raised his brow. “Why didn’t he come up with you then?”

“I didn’t say he would come up with the stairs m’lord.”

Just then he had managed to spot a head of dark auburn hair peeking out from the window, and the sounds of a little Stark struggling to firmly place his foot on any which stone.

Cregan sighed and got up from his chair. “Of course…” he murmured while quickly going towards the window. “Bran!” The sudden shock from the boy’s face was obvious, as was his hand slipping. Had he not grabbed the boy by his collar there was no doubt he would have fell, though that was his plan, if he didn’t wish to listen to fear, then a little bit of fear might be good to put some sense into the child.

With one hand Cregan easily pulled the boy through his window, compared to carrying Sif off his bed every evening, Bran might as well have been a feather. The boy grunted as he fell flat on the hard wooden floor. “Never slipped once, eh?”

“Well of course I’ll slip if you scare me like that!”

“Good, remember that feeling the next time you think of doing something like that. Because next time I won’t be there to catch you should you bugger it up.”

The boy got up from the floor and dusted off his clothers. Like his father and brother the boy was dressed in attire befitting of a son of nobility. In a grey tunic and dark brown pants he carried with him both the colors and sigil of House Stark embroidered on his chest. While Cregan himself would have liked a far more simple form of attire to wear, the wratth of his twin was something he would be wise to avoid, especially if her precious prince saw him in a simple wool shirt.

“I never fell off Winterfell’s walls…” Bran mumbled to himself, clearly intent on proving his acrobatic skills were up to par. That was not the issue however.

“For the last time Bran, Castle Darry is not Winterfell.” he grabbed his brother by the shoulder, helping him wipe off whatever dirt he still had on his tunic. “You may know those stones better than anyone, know every nook and crevice to put your feet into, every hole to slink those fingers in, which ones to avoid, which are sturdy, which are loose. Here that knowledge means nothing. What do you know of Castle Darry?”

“Not true!” Bran interrupted him, his voice cracking. “That’s why I’m doing it, so I know where to climb and where not to!”

“Is that so? And I assume today wasn’t the first time you’ve been pulling this foolishness right under father’s nose? _Despite_ the promise you made to mother?” That got him to mind his words at least. If all those stories of knights and adventuring had any worth, it was to instill in Bran a sense of honesty and integrity, one that proves useful when trying to guilt a child into a confession. “Well Bran, have you been going against mother and father’s wishes again?”

The boy looked down, trying to avoid his brother's gaze as much as he could. “No…” Bran murmured as softly as he could. Before he could pressure the boy any further however, sounds of scratching at the door. He seemed to have forgotten their entire conversation as Bran immediately began to light up. “Summer!” he said instinctively.

_‘Of course, would he go anywhere without him?’_ Cregan often asked the same for his own direwolf, but perhaps the better question was if Sif would ever get bored enough to stop following him about.

Tor opened the door and the silvery grey direwolf quickly rushed to his master’s side. “You’ve finally named him then?” Cregan asked, to which the boy nodded and scratched the wolf standing eagerly by his side. “Well, it’s as good a name as any I suppose.”

“Why did you give Sif the name you did Cregan?” the boy asked, trying his best not to divert the conversation back to what it originally was.

“It’s from an old story I heard of, one I was told back during my days in Highgarden.”

“Really? Can I hear it?” That got him excited, if there was anything his little brother was more passionate about than knights and adventuring, it was hearing about it through stories. Robb would often tell him how Bran had longed since winded out Old Nan’s tongue with retelling the same stories over and over again. It made him wonder how the boy and prince Tommen did not come about one another yet, he may have been a bit younger than him, around Rickon’s age more like, but the two were practically the same. Well, save for the climbing.

“You can, and one day I might be willing enough to tell you.” He opened the door to his chambers. “Now get out, all of you.”

Tor was the first to leave, hopefully to reunite with Willy, he was not good by himself for too long, that he knew at least. Bran pouted stubbornly, clearly intending to get out the same way he came in. That was not a possibility now of course so the Stark boy quickly conceded, with Summer and Sif close behind. “Not you, you damn mutt.” he stopped the direwolf with his foot. “Of all the times you choose to get up…”

* * *

Dressed as lavishly as rough travel would allow, Cregan and his wolf walked about the courtyard. Though they may have been staying here a few days now, there were still those who would gaze at the Starks, from a distance and when they were sure they would not notice of course. Cregan would always notice however. Sif did not care for it however, he was a passive animal all things considered, perhaps the exact opposite of ones like Shaggy Dog or Nymeria, yet that did not stop Cregan from attempting to train him as best he could. The best he could entailed teaching the wolf to sit when commanded and not pounce at any horse or dog he deemed fit as a fine meal, so far he was mostly successful.

Nymeria or Summer did not have those problems it seemed, and mainly kept themselves beside their masters, save for their tendency to go out and hunt for their own food. Lady was practically born trained, so there were never any worries for her. She suited Sansa well in that regard.

Speaking of the direwolves, Cregan and Sif both quickly spotted one, Nymeria, standing dutifully beside Arya. It was not an uncommon sight, were it not for the red-haired boy standing opposite her. They were searching for something, talking and laughing, and it was clear the girl was having fun for once. And from her dress being utterly worn out and dirtied, he could easily figure out why.

Unlike his twin, Arya was a wild spirit through and through. While Bran was interested in the more chivalric side of exploration and adventure, Arya did not follow any of those kinds of dreams. If one were to ask Sansa, she would describe her as uncouth and completely un-ladylike, something that more often than not proved to endear her to the more common people. It helped that she had no problem making new friends quick.

“And just where have you been?” he approached the two and asked his sister, who turned in a panicked motion towards him. It didn’t take much to sneak up on her, which was why he was glad Nymeria often stayed beside her, as the wolf’s nose and hearing were far better than hers. The only reason she did not begin barking now was because she knew Cregan well enough to not consider him any kind of threat, as she also considered all the Starks.

Arya quickly got up from her crouched stance, hands filled with autumn leaves. “None of your business.”

“That’s where you are wrong dear sister. I can’t expect Nymeria to be with you everywhere you go, and not even a direwolf can beat back a hungry bear, least not with their current size.” he turned to the red-headed boy. “And who might you be?”

“He’s my friend.” Arya answered angrily, not even letting the boy open his mouth. Despite her clear stand off with the elder Stark, Cregan ignored the girl completely, nodding to the peasant boy to finish his sentence.

“Mycah, m’lord.” the red-head answered in a shaky voice. “I’m-” before he could finish what he was saying, Cregan raised his hand as a realization came upon him.

“The butcher’s boy, correct?” he asked and the boy nodded. “I remember now. Your father sold us some meat during our trip back to Winterfell, salted pork, and enough to last us a good few weeks from the terror of eating stale bread.”

“Aye, m’lord.” Mycah seemed to perk up for a moment. “Me pa and I, we go ‘round on our meat wagon and sell goods to anyone who buys.”

“He does good work then. I’ve never tasted pork so salty, that’s probably why it lasted so long.” Cregan said, before turning back to his little sister still standing defiantly between the two, yet her expression quickly softened upon hearing their conversation. “What, did you think I would punish you somehow?”

“No… it’s just… I don’t know.” the girl answered indecisively.

“Well you were wrong either way. Now answer me this.” he pointed to the two’s pockets. “Why in Seven Hells do you two have pockets full of leaves? Did you think it would make you float or something?”

The two younger children looked at one another, giving away their intentions almost instantly. Cregan sighed, “You really should stop listening to Old Nan’s stories Arya. You’re not Bran…”

“But she said-”

“I know what she said, Gods do I ever. And _I_ am saying that you two get those leaves out of your pockets before father sees. Why were you planning on swimming anyways? There are no lakes or ponds anywhere near here, besides…” he pondered on it for a moment, before the realization soon came. “Ah, so that’s what you were after.”

“Old Prince Rhaegar’s rubies m’lord, we wanted to go and search for ‘em.” Mycah explained the epiphany out loud.

“Yes I’m well aware of the legend. And that’s what it is, just a legend.” he turned to face Arya, crouching down to eye level. “One you’d be wise to stay clear from little lady, last I remembered you could barely swim in a barrel of water, much less a running stream.”

“That’s what the leaves were for…” she spoke dejectedly, emptying out an unusually large amount of crushed leaves from the tiny pockets of her dress.

_‘Mother had that sewn specially for her. At least she’s putting them to use I suppose.’_ Cregan rose up from his crouch and put his arms around his waist. “Well, let’s go then.”

Arya and Mycah looked at him both with raised brows, though Arya’s was more of suspicion while Mycah’s was that of fear, it seemed the butcher’s boy was still not too comfortable around him as he was with Arya. “What do you mean, m’lord?” Mycah asked with a weary voice.

“To the Trident’s course. We’ll not be hunting for rubies, but it’s a good enough way for me to keep an eye on the both of you. Now come, we’ll be back before sundown.”

“Shouldn’t you be with Sansa and the little boy prince of hers, and what about _your_ betrothed?” her voice was squeaky and caddy, resembling more of a farmer’s daughter than that of a Stark noble. Still, Cregan much preferred it to the grim and sweet honey words he had grown so accustomed to over the years.

“You ask too many questions little sister.” Cregan had already passed both of them and was making his way to the two’s intended destination, not even slowing down his pace for them to catch up. “Now come, before I tell father you’ve been trying to drown yourself with pockets full of leaves.”

* * *

The Ruby Ford as it was called only encompassed a rather small area around the neck of the Trident, and was called such during Robert’s Rebellion, when the King fought and defeated Rhaegar Targaryen, crushing the Prince’s chestplate with his hammer, sending the many rubies it was adorned with flying into the river. There have been those who have managed to find some of these famous rubies, and sold them for a rather large sum of gold, however all these years later it is rare to find them at the actual Ford, many of which having followed the Trident’s course for so long. Still, that does not stop superstitious people from spreading legends about. It did not matter that they were not actually at the Ruby Ford, they were close to it, and Mycah and Arya were hungry for some adventure, as children are all want to do.

While he didn’t allow them to actually swim in the ford, Cregan and the two still went along its side, the two direwolves following from across the rows of wayward trees. He held his hands to his back, slowly observing the stream as it peacefully went along. The birds flew to and fro, descending quickly to catch a small fish here and there, while the winds lightly blew leaves away from branches close by. With the sun out and clouds nowhere to be seen, it reminded him quickly of the many days he spent lounging on the grassy fields near Highgarden.

The calm was quickly interrupted however as he began to hear strange noises from behind. Arya and Mycah were not too fascinated with the scenery, but rather seem to have taken up arms against one another with large sticks.

“What are you two doing?”

“What does it look like? We’re sword fighting, hyah!” Arya threw a swing at Mycah, who barely managed to block it in time.

“Truly you are the most fearsome little wolf on this continent.” Cregan said with a sigh, no point in trying to argue with them. And what’s the harm that will come of it? “Fine, you two have your fun. It’s best we not go any further either way.” he began looking around for a nice tree or oak to lie under. The Riverland’s terrain was more muddy and soft than the Reach, yet there were still places like this one that had fields reminiscent of those grassy plains.

“Wait!” Arya quickly stopped him dead in his tracks, the sparks of an idea quickly forming in her mind. “You trained with knights and soldiers, didn’t you Cregan? Just like Robb and Jon did with Ser Rodrik!” her eyes shone with a new purpose. “Can’t you teach us how?”

“What?”

“Teach us how to fight with swords. Like all the knights do!” The excitement brimming from the girl was almost poisonous, and while Mycah was of a much more reserved nature it was clear he shared in Arya’s enthusiasm.

Cregan sighed.

* * *

“Left foot forward, right one back… remember, don’t slouch too much.” he repeated the same commands for what felt like the tenth time in a row. “Grip it harder or it’ll begin slipping when you swing.”

Mycah was a fast learner, however his talents were wasted as a soldier. As he swung an overhead strike towards Cregan the Stark merely stepped to the sides and knocked the stick out of the boy’s fingers with a quick jab. He did his best not to give the boy too many bruises, but it was clear he needed some form of tutelage aside from mere words and demonstration, so pain might just be the next best thing.

As the two boys continued their little training session Arya sat lazily to the sides with as much patience as the girl could muster, waiting for her turn. Though the girl was not that impatient in reality, that only applied to things she was not passionate about, sword fighting, unfortunately, was not one of those things. To the sides Nymeria was busy sniffing about the area, occasionally finding the odd mushroom to lick and then run away from. Sif meanwhile was too busy lounging himself on the warm grass and letting his furs soak up the Sun’s gentle warmth.

“Right, pick it up again. I’ll show you something.”

“Yes m’lord.” From the tone of the boy’s voice he was growing quite frustrated, what with the dozen or so bruises forming around his hands Cregan could not quite blame him. One does not become a master overnight however, he himself learned that the hard way many times.

As he picked up his stick that lay strewn near Arya, Cregan once again took up a stance, this time facing to the boy’s side. Mycah’s face immediately let out a mental sigh, no doubt thinking he was about to get the stick flung from him again. “I want to show you something. Just pay attention to what I do.” Cregan spoke calmly. Truthfully he was getting rather tired of this whole thing, but it was a good way to pass the time, and they did both ask him so who was he to say no to Lady Arya Stark and the famed butcher’s boy of the meat wagon.

“Watch where my hands are.” he slowly raised the stick just near the level of his eyes, and then with the speed of lighting struck the stick down to his waist, bringing it up once more faster than when he had struck it down. “You put too much effort into your blows, swing them back far more than you should. I can already tell where you are coming from before you’ve even begun swinging it. Have some more control, both of your weapon, and yourself.”

The boy watched intently and soon readied his weapon, doing his best to imitate Cregan’s movements. It wasn’t anything special, yet it was clear he kept the instructions to heart.

“Good, now come at me one more time. Remember, no large swings, try and hit as fast as you can.” He readied himself and faced the boy, their sticks facing towards one another. While Mycah himself was staring at Cregan intently, looking for any opening to strike, Cregan spotted something at the corner of his eyes. Just as he took his eyes off the butcher’s boy, Mycah lunged the stick forward to his head. A quick jab, just like he had taught him.

The strike, however, was too quick for _him_ to react to. He swung his stick up towards Mycah’s just barely managing to shove it away from his temple, yet the boy’s weapon still struck Cregan’s head to the sides, causing him to stumble backwards. A sharp pain began forming to the side of his head, and with a touch he could see blood.

Immediately the boy began to panic, dropping his stick to the ground as he and Arya both ran to Cregan who clutched the point of impact. Through the panicked sounds of footsteps coming towards him however he heard something else. A girl’s shocked gasp, followed soon after by a boy’s laughter and then slow clapping.

Sansa and Prince Joffrey both stood some twenty feet away from the three, one with a look of horror, the other of amusement. _‘Of course, he most likely dragged her here for the same reason these two wanted.’_ The Prince did not seem like the type to be ready to impress others, he had a rather haughty and prideful attitude about him that way, same as his mother.

“It would appear the peasantry has begun revolting again.” Joffrey said in a sneerish tone as he approached them, a hand clasped down on the hilt of his sheathed sword. “I had heard tales of your prowess with a blade good-brother. No doubt they were all baseless rumors as I see now that even a lowborn pig herder can best you.”

“It would appear so.” Cregan said dejectedly, the two had not spoken even once before, and he had a feeling this would not be a good introduction.

“F-forgive me m’lord! I didn’t mean to! You… you alway managed to get out on time I-...” Mycah scrambled to find his words, furiously apologising to the Stark before he stopped him.

“It’s fine Mycah.” Cregan managed to get himself back on his feet again. “I was distracted, and you pushed the advantage. Well done.” he reassured the boy.

“Yes, well done indeed.” the prince continued. “Though it is a shame we will have to cut off the hands of such a promising future soldier.”

Mycah’s eyes widened in shock, and he was not the only one. As Joffrey walked around the three, a hand on his chin and with a grin that could only be described as evil, Cregan observed the prince’s hand that was gripping the sword. Ornately forged and perhaps costing more than what the average guard will make in his entire lifetime, it was a weapon made for a warrior and a nobleman, yet Joffrey looked to be neither unfortunately.

“I-... No, m’lord! No! I didn’t mean it!” Mycah’s fears all came back in a second as he now began groveling to the prince rather than to Cregan.

“I am not your _lord_ peasant.” Joffrey said, a scorn in his voice. “I am your prince. Are you so daft you do not know that? If anything I should cut your tongue out right now for your insolence.”

Sansa quietly managed to get by her twins' side during the exchange. _“What were you doing here?!”_ she whispered to him. _“Father told us not to leave the Keep unless it's with him.”_

“I could say the same for you.”

_“That’s different. You know it is.”_ her voice could barely be described as a whisper by this point, yet still, she continued, not wanting their words to be heard by the prince.

“Yes well we shall debate differences later Sansa, as well as why I can smell wine from you.” that got her to be quiet at least, yet not there was one more crisis he would have to deal with. The prince himself had redder checks than Sansa right now, and it was clear the boy was rather drunk. _‘She’s too prim to go against Father’s wishes, and wine is something she never enjoyed. This is his doing, no doubt about it.’_

“Leave him alone!” Arya shouted as she stood in-between the prince and Mycah.

“And who are you now?” Joffrey unsheathed the sword and pointed it to the little girl. The hilt by itself seemed about two sizes too big for him, yet the weight must have been ever harder for the prince to handle as he quickly went from wielding it with one-hand to two-handing the blade. “Another peasant girl intent on the rope?”

“Prince Joffrey no! That is my sister!” Sansa was the one who intervened this time. The relationship between the two had always been strained, but Sansa had too much of a gentle heart to ever allow her own kin to come to harm. Though Cregan could think of more reasons as to why she would stop this whole madness. “Please, there is no need to trouble ourselves with this nonsense. Come, let us continue our walk, please.” her voice was soft and her words filled with grace.

As his sister slowly approached the prince, her attempts to calm him were only met with a scornful gaze, one she seemed to either not notice or did not care enough to interrupt herself. However, it gave Cregan the opportunity to jump in himself.

“Indeed, your Grace.” he grabbed Arya by the shoulder and pulled her out of the way of the blade while he walked past the prince. The eyes were on him now, those same emerald green eyes the Queen possessed, yet with more vengeful hate than with luxurious poison. “Tell me, how well versed are you with that sword?”

“What?” the prince’s brow raised as his sword began to descend lower.

“My brother Robb and I would often spar, back when we were in Winterfell. He and I often used practice swords, and fought another near every morning.” Cregan said as he wiped off the new trickle of blood slowly running down the side of his head, the wound itself was nothing too major, simply a cut, yet it did still sting due to its freshness.

“Yes, and I see now that it did you no good.”

“Then what say you and I have a bout then?” he crouched down to pick up the stick Mycah had dropped and then turned to face the prince. “I do believe I could use the practice.”

The prince grinned, clearly amused at the little challenge Cregan was posing to him. “Very well then, good-brother. Allow me to show you then how it must be done.”

“You have my eternal gratitude, your grace.” Cregan bowed elegantly before putting himself into a stance, his left hand forward with the right one behind his back, holding the other stick right in its middle. “So then, shall we go for first blood?”

“Well seeing as how you are already one wound deep it would appear I’m already at an advantage then.”

“No fair!” Arya jumped in at that point. “You can’t beat him with just a stick!”

_“Shut it!”_ he could hear Sansa tell their sister as she held her back from making things any worse.

“Don’t worry, I’ll manage…” he managed to comment through gritted teeth. The sting on his sides was getting harder and harder to ignore, but it was nothing he had not dealt with before.

As the prince soon gripped his sword against Cregan, the Stark once more readied himself. Sword and “Sword” both readied, they maneuvered around one another. To successfully manage what he was planning to do, he would have to lead the prince on a rather dangerous dance. As they circled around, not breaking eyes, Cregan could spot Sif watching the two, licking his snout, yet his tail was not waging as it often did when he would do such things. He trained the wolf well enough not to attack without his command, but he needed to be careful even more now.

All odds were against him now. The prince was a prideful one, more so than Lannisters usually are, and it seemed he inherited one thing from his father, a short temper. Anything could set him off now, and that would mean doom to Mycah, but that did not mean he was about to just let him have his way. Either way, Cregan will have to bleed, but that does not mean he won’t be going down without a fight.

Joffrey was quick to make the first move. Mycah, while untrained and rather sloppy, still had experience with chopping things, whether that be firewood or meat. The prince however managed to somehow be worse than him. The blow was incredibly easy to predict, had he actually gotten an actual sword, any sound opponent would have killed Joffrey here and now.

A quick step to the sides and a tap to the back of the boy’s knee sent him to the ground quickly. The prince did not relent however, faster than when he had fallen he was already back up and attacking Cregan again. Once again, had he an actual weapon, or even a practice sword, this would not be even a struggle; however he had only a flimsy stick. To account for this, Cregan did not block any of the prince’s blows, rather choosing to deflect them along the arch they were already heading towards, simply away from him. He did his best to aim for the sides of the blade, as one direct hit would have no doubt split it in half.

The prince continued his rampage, if one could even call it that. Relentlessly, he attacked Cregan with blow after blow. _‘I can’t bruise you prince, you’ll remember that too spitefully, but I can give you something else to remember, pain.’_ he thought to himself, dodging a side strike from Joffrey’s blade.

From the sides Sansa, Arya and Mycah all began to slowly move away further and further from the two, it was beginning to show that it was not safe to be near them. Still, his plan was working at least, and the prince was getting winded. _‘Just a little more, come on. And then I’ll end this farce.’_ Cregan mentally goaded the prince, lowering his stick to show himself to be even more wide open.

The duel had quickly devolved into Cregan leading Joffrey around in a haphazard circle, trying to keep him as far away from three on-lookers as possible. Still, even he was getting tired of this, both emotionally, mentally and physically. It was a rather pathetic showing, one that Joffrey was no doubt aware of, however it will be worth it if he managed to perform this well enough.

The prince did a lunge with his blade, stabbing clearly toward Cregan’s heart. _‘Good enough…’_ he positioned the stick to beat back the blade, praying to the Old Gods and the New that he wouldn’t cut his hand off with this. The stick bounced back off the blade, just enough for him to position his forearm at the tip. The prince was sent tumbling forward from his overreached attack, yet finally, it connected, and the steel cut clearly through both his clothes and his skin. A better outcome he could not have hoped for.

Yet no matter how planned out it all was, it did not change the burning sensation now running through his arm. The prince heaved and struggled to pick himself up from the ground, the eloquent and finely woven crimson clothing ordained in gold embroidery being overtaken by the wet mud long ago. At the same time, Cregan dropped both sticks from his hand and dropped to his knees. Gritting his teeth he clutched at the wound with his free hand. Just as Mycah’s blow, the wound itself was nothing too deep, and thankfully only cut the tip of his skin. Yet the blood was clear to see.

“Well done, your Grace.” Cregan spoke calmly through tired breaths as he slowly got up.

“Wh-what?” the prince also managed to get back on his feet it would seem, chest heaving up and down and sweat running down the boy’s face.

“It appears you were right when saying I was not of any martial prowess.” His voice not giving anything, Cregan slowly let go of the wound to show the prince his victory. “A battle well-fought, your Grace. We should do this again.”

“Yes…” Joffrey’s voice was unsure, indecisive to say the least. For a moment, Cregan thought the young prince had caught on to what he was doing, but his fears were soon dashed aside. “I shall give you this Cregan; you are of finer stuff than your brother. When the two of us sparred, he refused to duel with live steel. It seems you do not share his fears.”

“That was incredible, my prince!” Sansa quickly came to the tired prince’s side, not even sparing a glance to her bleeding and battered brother. “The blood of King Robert is strong with you, he would be proud of this victory I am sure.” She coated the prince with honeyed words and for a moment, he saw the boy even crack a smile.

_‘Well done…’_ Cregan thought.

“You must be tired though, come, let us go back to the keep.” she reached her hand up to the boy’s shoulder, slightly nudging him away from the trio of Arya, Cregan and Mycah.

He turned to look at Sif and saw the direwolf was standing on all fours again. His tail low and eyes towards the prince. And though no one else seemed to have noticed, he could hear a low growl coming from the wolf. “Shh…” he reached out his arm towards the wolf to stay his teeth, the last thing he needed after all of that was Sif gnawing the prince’s throat out.

“I suppose you are right.” Joffrey clumsily sheathed the blade back in its scabbard. “It’s not befitting of a prince to be playing in the mud with the commoners.” he took another look at Mycah and Cregan silently cursed himself, all of this was meant for the prince to forget about the butcher’s boy. Had his efforts been in vain?

“And you, peasant boy.” he pointed at Mycah, who froze almost instantly. “I shall forgive your transgressions this time, both to my name and to my good-brother here. Do not let me see your face ever again.”

“Y-yes m’l-... your grace!” he bowed to the Prince, who slowly walked off with Sansa.

For a moment, Sansa turned her head back to her twin and they gave each other a quiet nod. A catastrophe was avoided, and a measly cut was more than a fair price for it to be that way.

Cregan sighed and walked to the running river, washing his face and the wounds with the cooling water as Arya quickly ran over to him.

“You let him win?” she asked, an innocence about her soft tone. Whatever fierceness remained in her was long since buried.

“There was no way I could win.”

“But, m’lord.” Mycah said with uncertainty as walked over to him as well. “You let him cut you… I saw it, saw it with me own two eyes, I did.”

“You did?” Arya asked on top of Mycah’s words.

“Yes, I did.”

“Then that means you _did_ let him win!”

“No.” he got up from the stream to look at the two. “Letting him win would mean I intended it to be a fair match in the first place.”

“But you could have easily hit him and knocked him out on his arse!” Arya spoke dejectedly, the fire of frustration slowly beginning to rise in her once more.

“I could have, yes. So many times I could have knocked him _‘on his arse’_. And then when we would have all gone back to Castle Darry and receive lashings from both the Queen and Father.” he turned to Mycah. “And you would be fed to the dogs.”

Mycah gulped in fear as Arya sounded herself once more, “But-” she tried to yell out but Cregan stopped here.

“Enough.” he said in a near whisper. “What happened has happened. What matters is that Joffrey will return to Darry with no slashes to his pride, and father and the King will be none the wiser.” he splashed another rinse of water on his forearm to clean the cut, blood slowly trickled down towards the riverside, merging slowly into the water before disappearing down the stream. “Now go, both of you. Arya, take Mycah to the wagon and bring Nymeria with you. Mycah, for your sake I think it is better for you to stop being around my sister.”

The two looked at each other and then back to Cregan, who paid them no heed. It was clear this matter was not up for dispute, and so his little sister and the butcher’s boy went back to Castle Darry, Nymeria leading their way, a handful of chewed mushrooms stuffing her mouth. Their leave had left only him and Sif remaining at the Ford.

Sif approached his master and sat beside him. “What do you think boy?” he asked the wolf, showing off the cut. “Think it’ll heal in time for my wedding?” Sif merely snorted in response.

The two sat there for an hour or so more before the sun had begun going down. He ripped a part of his shirt sleeve to bandage the wound, ruining the finely sewn doublet he had prepared for today, but that was the least of his worries.

He looked on at the running stream of water in front of his feet, the image of his own blood running down it embedded into his mind. The pebbles down under it shone like rubies in the Sun, one of them in between some dirt seemed to even glimmer like a true gem would. Yet the water’s purity now seemed ruined, what little it had that is.

_‘I wonder… did Rhaegar’s blood flow so smoothly along the current when he died.’_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4: The Capital**

Myrcella drowsily made her way back to her chambers. The castle had been in somewhat of an uproar since the events of yesterday and the temporary disappearance of Lord Stark’s son, Cregan. Nothing serious came of it, of course. The boy found himself back at Castle Darry hours before the guards even came close to becoming ready to form a search party. Yet despite that, new patrols were set up, and Castle Darry found itself rather shut down.

It meant little to her however, she had no real plans or intentions on going anywhere. Where could she head to even? Back in King’s Landing, the Red Keep was practically a city unto itself, one where you could explore its labyrinthine halls and find yourself right back at the start of where you began. Yet it had its spots, the gardens, the courtyard, the Throne Room, all places she had to visit every now and again, or simply came there of her own volition. Castle Darry was not like that unfortunately, it was an old castle, with stone dating back further than her entire family line, yet it was also small, and with little room for exploring.

_‘No wonder he went out into the wilderness, it must be so terribly drab for a boy to be caged in like this.’_ she thought. Long ago her father told her stories of how he and Lord Stark would go out into the valleys of the Vale and climb together, and how Lord Eddard would tell her father stories of Winterfell’s woods. Northmen loved their woods, it offered food and bounty aplenty.

Despite the events of yesterday, this day had been rather calm, all things considered. For that she was grateful, excitement was good every now and again but ones that sent entire castles into panic ranged rather low on her list of wants. Still, she was glad her betrothed was safe at least.

The sun had set long ago, and the small and narrow corridors of Castle Darry were lit with only barely noticeable flames from the torches that hung on the walls, yet Myrcella had long since memorized the path back to her chambers. Her mother had insisted they all share a room, but Joffrey immediately rebuked that suggestion, father as well. While Tommen was perhaps the only one to support it, with Myrcella being rather indifferent to it, he was still too young to be out and about by himself in the halls of Castle Darry, and frankly having Uncle Jaime, still clad in his Kingsguard uniform, marching him around would be a bit too much. For that reason Myrcella had volunteered to walk her little brother back to his room whenever they would have dinner together.

Turning another corner, she felt a sigh escape her lips and her eyes began to grow heavy. _‘Just a bit more…’_ she reassured herself. From the outside she heard the rustling of chain and steel plate, luckily there was a window close by. Out in the courtyard she could see the Hound, just barely however, yet the man’s menacing frame and unmistakable helmet made him stand out from the more simply armored guards patrolling the courtyard.

_‘Joffrey’s dog.’_ It was not a stretch to say that Myrcella rather loathed the grimly-suited bodyguard. He was a sour and mean-spirited person, prone to mockery and scared Tommen on more than one occasion. Had he not been his brother's faithful sword, she would have feared him as well, but he knew that the Clegane was not so suicidal as to harm King Robert’s own daughter. Still, there was something wrong with that man, he was no knight, that was for certain, nothing like Ser Barristan or her Uncle Jaime.

The Hound led his horse to the stables and hitched it alongside the others. Once he had exited out the stables however, it seemed as if he almost knew that he was being watched, and so Myrcella quickened her pace away from the window. After traversing the stone hallways and making about three more turns she finally arrived at her chambers.

Slowly she turned the hinges of the door and went inside. Careful so as to not make too much noise. Though there were still many people inside the castle who had not yet retired for sleep yet, it was still a habit of hers to not be too loud, rather uncourteous for a princess to be bumping around the castle at night without an escort.

_‘Just a month or two more, and we’ll all be back home.’_ she let out a sigh after finally entering her room.

When they had first made their way from King’s Landing to Winterfell, Myrcella and her siblings were rather excited. They would finally be leaving the capital to someplace that was not Casterly Rock or Storm’s End, and as a family as well. They would get to see all kinds of sights and meet new people. And they did. Yet as time went on, the days felt as if they were getting longer, and the sights and people did not seem to affect her as much. It did not take long for her to realize she was getting homesick.

She wondered how her flowers were doing back in the gardens, and if Ser Arys had kept his promise of watering them regularly in her stead. He was among the three Kingsguard who were pressed to stay back in King’s Landing, alongside Ser Preston and Ser Roland. Father had a habit of not wanting the Kingsguard around, save for perhaps her Uncle Jaime and Ser Barristan, so their focus was mainly centered around defending the royal family much more than the King himself. Though why her father had picked the more skilled of the Kingsguard knights to stay behind when ones such as Boros Blount went with them, she could not understand.

Myrcella walked to a small table with a mirror, lighting a candle she slowly undid the small necklace and bracelet around her neck and wrist. Though she preferred it when she was much more presentable when going out, circumstances prevented that heavily, and so she kept things such as heavy jewels and ornate clothing to a minimum. Still, that did have its benefits, such as needing far less time to get into her bedclothes and go to sleep.

The candle let out a warm glow around her face, yet once she raised the mirror up to look at herself it was quite the opposite. The harsh weather and weak sun of the North did little for her complexion, yet that was not her main worry, it was the bags slowly forming around her eyes.

As the days became longer and their journey coming closer to an end, Myrcella became more restless, yet that did not change the fact that she would tire herself out after every day. This combination of opposites served well to disrupt any form of sleep she craved during the nights, leaving her alone in the pitch blackness, all to her thoughts, desperately clinging to a sleep that would never claim her. There were even nights she had gone without sleep at all, so much so she had asked her mother for help with it, to which she asked the maester of Castle Darry for a tiny brew of sweetsleep to be brewed in her drink every night she would be having troubles. It worked for the most part, and every time she would take it she would fall into a calm slumber.

_‘Just a month or two more…’_ she repeated internally, looking at her reflection in the mirror as the flames of the candle danced around her complexion.

Her gaze was soon interrupted with a knocking at the door. It was slow and would have been barely noticeable if there wasn’t so much quiet surrounding the keep at night. She stopped herself for a moment and pondered who it could be. It most certainly wasn’t Tommen, that boy was fast asleep after dinner, nor could it be her Uncle Jaime or old Ser Barristan.

A scratching sound soon came from the door, like that of a dog trying to get into the kitchens, followed quickly by muffled noises, a voice, and another set of knocks. “Just a moment…” she spoke softly, still unsure of who was at her door. It was not as if she feared for her life, yet still, it was strange to have someone come knocking at this time, or come knocking at her door at all. _‘Probably a servant.’_ she explained to herself.

Yet outside was not a servant, rather, a tall boy with thick auburn hair and blue eyes looking down at her. As she opened her door, Myrcella held the candle up and blinked a few times to see if her mind had not been playing tricks on her.

“My lady.” Cregan Stark stood stiff as an oak, not moving a muscle save for his lips parting to make words.

There were many times when someone had greeted her with those words, yet this was perhaps the first time she was at a loss for her own words in response. Mainly because she did not know _how_ to respond, so in turn she stood there in a confused stuppor for a moment.

“Forgive me, I must have woken you, I know that now is somewhat of an inopportune time for unprompted visits.”

“N-no of course not, it’s no trouble at all. Forgive me, it seems I’ve forgotten my manners.” she scrambled a quick bow before the Stark, something her mother had told her many times not to do as _‘A Princess should not bow to her subjects’_ , yet frankly, courtesy was something that transgressed positions of power in her eyes.

“The apology should be mine, my lady. There was something I had wished to talk to you about, but I was rather remiss with my time.” the young man spoke gently, yet with an incredibly harsh and bitter face, which did nothing but add to Myrcella’s confusion. It had been so long since she had heard him speak, she could scarcely recognize even the boy’s voice.

It was not as if she had forgotten about her betrothed, nor that she bore him any ill-will. Even before she and her family arrived at Winterfell, Myrcella had long been informed of her planned betrothal with Eddard Stark’s second son, followed closely with the assurance by her father of how good a match it would be.

_“Ned is one of the best men I know, sunshine. You’ll see, there’s no better match a girl can get than a son of Eddard Stark.”_

From her father’s stories, she had expected two things at that point, either an impressive man, chivalrous, gallant, and handsome, like her Uncle Jaime. Or a stern and stoic, yet polite and suitable lad with a wilder side. In reality however, Lord Stark’s son was rather… boring.

There was nothing wrong with him, mind you. When they had spoken shortly during the feast at Winterfell, he was very polite, and their dance together was quite the highlight of her evening that night, though that was mainly due to her trying not to embarrass herself by tripping over on the dance floor. When she had spent time with Cregan’s twin, Sansa, she had only good things to say of him, and Myrcella could believe the praise the girl had given him. It was a shame however that most of those things were _‘He’s a very good listener’_ and _‘He can be very polite when you tell him to’_. Traits that could be considered incredibly useful in a dog or cat, but not in a potential spouse.

Myrcella’s gaze slowly lowered down to the Stark’s feet for a moment, making her heart skip a beat as she saw a single yellow eye staring back at her. In that instant she had almost screamed in terror, if it were not for Cregan quickly stopping her, she would have most likely woken up the entire castle.

“It’s alright. He won’t do anything, he just thinks this is his room.” the Stark explained as he put his arm back down, it was then she noticed how he had his other hand behind his back, as if hiding something. Yet Myrcella already knew what he was most likely hiding.

“Oh?” she asked with a rather shaky voice. It was no secret the direwolves terrified her to no end, yet over time she did get somewhat used to their presence, but that was only from looking at them from afar, now with one being so close all of her fears were flooding back to her. “Very well then. I’ll… trust your word for it.” she struggled to tear her eyes away from the large wolf who was busy licking his snout and wagging his tail happily like a dog. “So then, you said there was something you wished to ask me?”

“Indeed.” Cregan produced the arm from his back and reached it out towards Myrcella, he held his fist closed and slowly opened it up to reveal a small gem, a crimson red ruby.

“What’s this?” Myrcella asked, observing the ruby at the palm of the Starks hand. When she brought her candle closer Myrcella could see the gem begin to sparkle against the flames.

“A request.” Cregan said as he nudged his hand slightly towards Myrcella. “And an apology for past behaviors.”

“An apology?”

“Yes, an apology. I realize that I have not made quite an effort to… well, spend time with you. At least not as much as Sansa has with your brother Joffrey.”

“No no, there’s no need for you to apologize my lord.” Myrcella interrupted the boy as she finally understood what he was doing. “I understand I have not been very open when it comes to reaching out to you. It must be hard for you, being away from home, away from all the people you know. It must be terrible.”

“I’m used to it.” His words were simple and short, without a hint of emotion in them. “However I am more than willing to admit my mistake on this matter, and it is one I wish to correct.”

Myrcella couldn’t help but let out a smile. “And your main way of showing this to me was giving me a jewel I could get any day?” she teased with a raised brow.

“As I said, my lady, it was an apology. And a request.”

“Oh?” she picked the small ruby from Cregan’s hand and inspected it for a moment, it was real, of that she had no doubt, but there was something odd about it. “And what request would that be?”

“I would like it very much if we could spend some time together. The Riverlands are not known for their lush green meadows, but there are still some places we could go around and get to know one another.” his words sounded near mechanical in the tone, yet somehow Myrcella couldn’t help but believe what he was telling her.

“I’d like that, my lord. Very much.” she smiled at the Stark, and for a moment, Myrcella could swear she could see a hint of light forming around Cregan’s cold eyes.

“Very well then. Thank you, my lady. I hope to give you a better impression than our time in Winterfell.”

“You are well on your way to doing that already, my lord. However, may I ask you something before you leave?” Myrcella asked as Cregan raised his brow. Without words she pointed towards the bandaged forearm of the Stark that gave her the ruby.

“Ah,” Cregan looked at the bandaged forearm, “I had gotten this yesterday. The rather bothersome thing about the Ruby Ford is that it becomes more treacherous the more upstream you travel.” he explained, to which Myrcella raised her brow.

“You went up the Ruby Ford?”

“Only partially. How do you think I managed to find that jewel?” Cregan’s words made Myrcella stop for a moment, with wide eyes she looked once more towards the ruby in her hand, finally recognizing the color and why it seemed so familiar.

“Truly?” was all she could ask, looking back from her hand towards the second born Stark son.

“Good night, my lady.” he said simply, leaving Myrcella standing dumbfoundedly in front of her opened door.

Soon enough she managed to come back to her senses and closed the door. With the candle almost run out of wax Myrcella spent her last remaining moments of light to observe the ruby Cregan had gifted her, the seemingly worthless piece of gemstones now having more value than an entire keep for her. Though it was not the fact that this was one of Rhaegar’s Rubies, it was that Cregan had gone through the trouble of simply _getting one_ for her. It was no easy task, especially after so many years, yet she believed the not so subtle implications the Stark had given her.

With every second that passed however, the more the ruby reminded her of the Stark boy’s bandaged forearm, and the real reason why the Stark had gotten it. It was no secret, Joffrey was more than happy to boast of his victory at the dinner table today, much to his father’s fury as to why he was picking fights with his soon-to-be good-brother, and his mother’s sudden worry as to what would have happened had he injured himself out there. All the while however, Myrcella thought about just what was going through Cregan’s head when challenging Joffrey to a spar with live steel, and why he had done it in the first place. Perhaps later on, he might even tell her, but until that time, she placed the ruby in the box where she kept all her personal jewelry.

_‘It seems I was wrong about you, Cregan Stark.’_ She thought. That night, Myrcella slept soundly, without a care in the world and excited for the coming days.

* * *

The streets of King’s Landing were as busy as ever, teeming with life from all corners of Westeros. The capital of the Seven Kingdoms was by far the largest and most populated area on the continent, which meant all its people would find themselves here sooner or later. The same could be said for Ser Martin of the Vale.

He led his horse by the reins across the busy streets of the Cobbler’s square, one of the more cleaner parts of the city, and its main road intended for all kinds of merchants, craftsmen and peddlers to sell their wares. A good dozen or so had already spotted him and were ushering him to look at their wares. It was nothing new, yet the man still stood out amongst the more common farmers and coal-carriers with his clean tunic and thoroughbred horse carrying two caskets worth of equipment.

He came to King’s Landing in search of work, as most Hedge Knights do, yet so far he had not had so much luck. Peace-time was not good for travelling swords, and frankly he did not have the will to travel to Essos and earn his wage with a sellsword company. Yet protecting merchant caravans were not the worst of jobs, the pay was decent, and Martin was good enough with his money that he had little to want when it came to basic necessities. For now, a bed and lodgings were more important.

Traveling down the road, he eventually found a rather quaint tavern with a stable. Right in front of the stables was a woman feeding hay to the horses and filling up the trough with a bucket of water.

“Pardon.” he called out to the woman.

“Another hedge boy, eh?” the old woman’s voice was rough and coarse, her posture crooked and skin seeming like it was gnawed by a pack of ravens, this was a woman whose life was fueled by her work, and it showed.

“Funny, I had thought myself more discreet in the past, yet it seems the capital is truly used to people like me.”

“Oh don’t get me started dear, just today I had a band of brothers buy out me boy three pairs of room, took the entire second deck of the inn they did.” The woman lifted a large pack of hay and placed it in front of a row of three horses who all ate it gleefully. “You here for bread and salt? A room?”

“Both. As well as a spot for my horse.”

“Right, bring ‘em here.” he handed off the rains to the old woman, who patted the brown and white spotted stallion on his snout. “I’ll take care of ‘is ‘ooves and saddle, you want us to take care of those big old bags as well? Got a nice closet in the back we keep hidden for guests, never once had someone steal a thing.”

“That would be most kind of you, my lady.”

“Hah! I’m too old for flattery lad, leave the noble talk for the girls at Chataya’s. Talk with ‘em like that and they might just let you have a go at them for free.”

“You speak as if from experience.” Martin couldn’t help but smile, the woman’s warm and chatty nature was a strong opposite to her shriveled and crooked appearance, though he had long learned in the past to not judge others based upon only a single factor.

The woman laughed drily. “As well I should, I worked there. Back before it was even called Chataya’s. Had all four of me children there with four different men. One of which is workin’ there now.”

“Those sound like the words of someone who holds great pride in their past. There’s not many women who would speak so fondly of their times as women of the night.” Martin followed the woman into the stables as he picked up a few things from the satchel of his saddle, mainly, his coin purse.

“Ah, let me tell you sonny, any village girl with a nice pair of tits on her can become a tavern whore for a night, it takes skill to do what we did back in the day.”

“One always does prefer professionals I suppose, no matter the job that needs to be done.”

“How do you think I managed to get this inn?” The woman tied his horses reins by a nearby wooden post and let the steed feast himself on a fine bale of hay in front of him. “You can pay what you need to me son inside, he’s the one who handles all the money. Seven know he doesn’t want me to handle the coin anymore, ungrateful little shit.”

“Of course. One more question, is there a problem if I bring my blade with me?”

“Not at all, Serrah. Gods forbid you get caught with a prick inside your bum and don’t have anything to show for it.”

“Wonderful.” He unwrapped the rope around the scabbard that was tied around his horse’s saddle. Once ready at his side, Martin went inside the tavern through the main gates.

A fine enough establishment if ever there was one in King’s Landing. Around the tables people paid no heed to him entering as they focused on their meals and drinks. Meanwhile, the stablewoman’s son stood ready at the counter, cleaning a pair of mugs with a wet rag.

“Welcome Ser, how may I help you?” the barrel chested man greeted him kindly, a crooked smile appearing at his lips the moment he spotted him.

“A room, if you will, good man. And some care for my horse outside.”

“But of course, and how long will your stay be?” he quickly let got of the mugs and placed them on the counter before pulling out a small sheet of paper.

_‘I suppose the old woman must have left quite a good impression on her customers if she could teach her children how to read and write.’_ Martin thought. “As long as my coin can fill your pocket.” he pulled out his purse and answered the man, leaving three golden dragons.

From a simple look at the two, the differences in appearance were night and day. Martin was still considered a young man, with raven black hair and a beard beginning to form on his jaw, he held himself to a high form as much as he could. The tavernkeep was the opposite it would seem, with a pronounced gut and greying hair that looked to be slowly balding away, his looks matched his mother, yet it seemed he lacked the social wits to back them up.

The moment the coins touched the table, Martin could see him fight the urge not to begin drooling on them.

“But of course Ser!” he near shouted out to the entirety of King’s Landing. “Here you are, your room is on the far right of the third floor.” reaching under the desk he pulled out a metal key and handed it to Martin, who thanked him quickly and made his way to the room.

As he traversed the steps, Martin took a look at the copper key in his hand. _‘I’ve never seen an inn with keys for each room. Suppose they build them differently here in the capital.’_

His quarters were on the more luxurious side, that was for certain. A large bed, a chest, and furniture lined around such as a small table, a cupboard, three shelves bolted to the wall with an assortment of books. This was a room suited more for a petty merchant prince than a simple hedge knight, but playing smart with your money paid off in the end, now he hoped to continue earning enough to be able to afford things like this.

_‘A few more years, some luck, and skill on my part, I’ll be living easily on a plot of land of my own.’_ Now, the only thing he was missing was a reputation. Knights rode their horses with prestige and renown following behind them, but those were the boons of being born a noble to some great house. Martin was a bastard, and not even one who was sired by anyone of note, so he would have to dig himself out of obscurity by his hands alone, and caravanning for the rest of his life was not the way to go about it.

He laid himself out on the large bed that seemed intended more for a family of four than a single person, and slowly began to fall into a slumber. The journey had been long, and the soft furs and feathers under him quickly managed to claim his consciousness.

After a while however, cheers coming from the outside interrupted his sleep. Cries of joy and chants, whistles and screams. Looking out of his window, he saw the source of all the noise.

The King, and the royal family, had returned to King’s Landing.

Martin watched out from his window at the sight in front of him, hundreds upon thousands of men, women, and children cheering on the Stag King as he triumphantly rode red-faced and tired, back into the Red Keep. It was no secret that the King had been journeying across the continent and into the North for Lord Eddard Stark’s keep of Winterfell. After the death of Jon Arryn, the Crown needed a Hand. There was much speculation across the continent Martin heard of who the next Hand would be, some rightfully speculated it would be Tywin Lannister, the Queen’s father and former Hand of King Aerys, others thoughts of men such as the King’s brothers Stannis or Renly, or even bold suggestions such as Lord Tarly or Mace Tyrell. Yet in the end, Martin’s thoughts of who it would be were confirmed when he saw Eddard Stark riding beside the king, adorned in his silver-grey attire with the sigil of House Stark emblazoned onto it, the man cut a rather regal figure. Who else would rule by the King’s side if not the very man who he had won his throne with?

The royal procession slowly made its way across Cobbler’s Square, behind the king rode four Knights of the Kingsguard, all adorned in their white cloaks and plate, the sun shining on them as they were met with equal cheers from folks seeing them ride. The City Watch held the masses at bay, yet Martin was glad to see that for once it was to hold them back from smothering the King with praise rather than throwing excrement and rotten food.

King Robert was a good man in the eyes of many of Westeros’ people, a soldier King, and one who loved to throw lavish parties, feasts and tourneys for many occasions. Many knights had found their success from one of the King’s tourneys, winning gold, fame and prestige from them all. Which was why Martin had come here in the first place.

If he ever wished to live the quiet and tranquil life he so wished, he required not only money, but also fame and renown. From the blood and mud of the battlefield, he had long since set out to make a name for himself, and that is what he shall do. _‘Perhaps winning a King’s tourney might be enough to buy me a small barony? Make a noble family of my own.’_ Ser Martin of the Vale never thought of himself as an ambitious man, yet that did not mean he had no aspirations of his own.

He was born the lowest of the low, an irchun on the streets of Oldtown fighting for crumbs of bread. Yet with sword and shield, he planned to climb as much as he could to the top, fate be damned.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 5: The Red Keep**

Eddard felt his eyelids fall heavy onto his face as yet another hour passed in the council chambers. The only thing that was a bigger nuisance to him now was the sun shining brightly into his eyes. He had come here near dusk, yet now it looked to already be midday.

“And now my lords, I believe we should move on to more pressing concerns.” the Spider, Varys, spoke up as he lavishly swung his fan back and forth to keep away the heat.

“Indeed, such as the tourney that is to be held for our newest member.” the King’s youngest brother and Master , Lord Renly, said.

“And here I was nearly forgetting the whole debacle.” Ser Kevan Lannister sighed, the Master of Coin brought a hand to his temple and then turned to Ned. “Very well. My lord, do you have any objections on the details?”

“No objections Ser. Merely a question.” his words were tired, his demeanor was tired, Gods be damned _he_ was tired. But still, there was a job to do, and he would not be caught falling asleep a day into his service as Robert’s Hand.

Bringing up the papers detailing all the events and showmanship involved with the tourney, as well as the hundreds, if not thousands, of participants, Eddard read through them all in a quick motion once more, before turning his attention back to the council members. “What of the rewards? I do not see them marked here. Do you not think that is vital information my lords?”

“Most certainly vital to the winners.” Renly commented.

“And vital to us as well.” Kevan interjected. “You are correct Lord Stark, the rewards are not marked down, as they have not been decided yet, and that is the matter which we had wished to discuss with you.”

_‘And you no doubt wished to leave it for last to make me not pay attention.’_ Eddard thought, a frown forming around his face as he allowed the Lannister to continue.

“As of now, the agreed upon amount for each category is as such.” Kevan pulled a record book from the sides with a single wrap of parchment placed in-between the pages. “For the winner of first place, a prize of fifty-thousand gold dragons, for second, twenty-five, and for third, twelve-and-a-half thousand. This is of course for the main event of the joust, there are also prizes for the first place participant of the melee, the archery contest, and the tests of strength, speed, and valor.”

Eddard listened intently before jumping in. “Tests?” he raised a brow. For all the years he had participated, watched, and heard of tourneys, never before had he seen or heard of anything close to _‘tests of strength, speed and valor.’_.

“Of course.” Grand Maester Pycelle commented. “It was an invention of the King some… uhm… oh dear how long was it now?” the Maester fumbled before the Spider came in to finish the old man’s explanation.

“Ten years, my lord.” Varys said. “During the tourney celebration of Prince Tommen’s birth. Though the King cherishes his feasts and tourneys, too much of a sweet thing eventually turns one's taste sour and thus unable to enjoy. That day was such an example.”

“Fortunately for us, a wild Boar managed to get itself stuck inside tourney grounds and ended up chasing down old Boros and his horse throughout the whole field.” Renly continued on from Varys’ words. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard Robert laugh as much as he did that day.”

As much as he hated to hear it, that did sound like something Robert would do, frankly Eddard was more surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. He was prone to such epiphanies, in the strangest of times no less. Though he may not have retained his warrior-esque physique, Ned was glad that at least some part of him remained the same.

_‘I’ll let the ghost of who Robert was go on with Renly, for now, let us be done with this thrice damned tourney.’_

“So, do we have your blessing Lord Stark?” Kevan interrupted his thoughts.

“What of the King, does he have no say in this? Robert is far more experienced with such things than I.”

“Be glad that he doesn’t, my lord.” Lord Renly commented, taking a bite out of the apple that was laying in front of him on the table. “If it wasn’t for my dear brother Stannis and the noble Ser here the crown would be drowning in debt.”

Eddard listened to the young man’s comments in confusion, before turning to Kevan who seemed prime and ready to answer questions. “His Grace has left these matters in our hands long ago. As Lord Renly so tactfully explained, thanks to the council of both Lord Stannis and I, matters regarding coin and the spending of it have been delegated as duties purely for the Master of Coin.”

The more his fellow council members would explain, the less Eddard understood the current situation facing the Seven Kingdoms. He knew of Robert’s diswant to rule long ago, the man was a soldier through and through, yet from the words the two had spoken he did not think he was utterly uninvolved with ruling his own country. _‘I suppose it should be expected from him.’_ Eddard concluded with a sigh.

“Very well then. But can the crown afford such expenses?”

“We shall have to take out a loan I believe, but it is nothing we cannot pay back within a year.” the Lannister told him rather matter-of-factly, yet Eddard immediately stopped him.

“Aerys left the Crown’s treasuries overflowing. Are you saying Robert spent it all in a mere few years?”

“No, my lord, I am telling you he had spent it all within the first five years of his reign. And afterwards plunged us into about 5 million dragons worth of debt.”

“What?!” he nearly sprung from his seat at that, but Kevan retorted quickly.

“Four fifths of which we have paid since then, thanks once again to the intervention of Lord Stannis.”

“You give yourself too little credit, my lord. Stannis was Master of Coin for nary a year, you have been in his place for four times that length.” Pycelle said.

“I merely continued the man’s work, he was the one who spawned it all.”

“Something you have much experience with I’m sure.” Renly commented, taking another bite of his apple.

“My lords, please! May we come back to the matter at hand.” Eddard felt the veins in his body begin to boil. How could Robert let such a thing happen? “Lord Kevan, you say that you have already paid off the majority of the debt, how much does the crown still owe then, and to who?”

“One million in total, my lord.” Kevan once more grabbed his records and flipped through the pages in a succinct manner. “Seven hundred and fifty thousand to the Iron Bank, two hundred thousand to House Lannister, and fifty thousand to House Tyrell. By the end of this summer, we hope to pay off what is left of our debt to the Iron Bank, afterwards, we shall begin paying off all our debts to the Houses of Westeros.”

_‘And I am sure your brother shall earn himself a fine sum of gold in interest from those debts.’_ he thought.

“Very well…” Eddard said dejectedly, tapping the table with his index finger. “You say that you shall take a loan out for this tournament. How much will that be and from whom?”

“One hundred thousand should be more than enough to pay for the prizes. All of the further expenses regarding the setting up of the event have been all planned out and fully funded. I hope you do not take grievance with that, my Lord, we had foresaw that your journey would be a tirring one, so we had already made preparations in advance for the more tiring parts.”

“Not at all.” Eddard commented simply, yet he could not help but wince at the mention of more money being put into their debt.

“In terms of who we shall be taking it from, I will contact Lord Tywin regarding it, Casterly Rock should be more than willing to provide.”

_‘Of course.’_ he thought. “Very well. I shall speak to the King of this whole debt matter, it seems I was being withheld information.” Eddard slowly began to rise from his chair as all his fellow council members did the same after him. “My lords if there is nothing else to discuss I shall take my leave.”

“Should the need arise to discuss anything else you can be certain that we shall come first to you Lord Stark.” Varys bowed gracefully. “We are here to serve on your command.” and with those words the eunuch made his way out of the council chambers.

“Farewell Lord Hand. Should you ever have need of my services, I shall be in my quarters.” Grand Maester Pycelle bid his goodbyes and slowly waddled away, the thrice wound chain around his neck ringing across the halls long after he was gone.

Kevan however remained seated, bowing courtly to the lord before returning to his records book and writing down something Eddard could not see, however he had no wish to see it either. As he made his way to exit the chambers himself however, Renly had stopped him.

“Lord Stark, a word if I may?”

“Of course, what is it Renly?”

“You’ll forgive me if I address matters a bit too personally, but it is regarding your children. More specifically the ones currently residing in the Red Keep.”

“If you’re looking for a chance at betrothal I’ll have to disappoint you. Sansa is already taken, and Arya is much too young for you.”

Renly laughed heartily at that, he had Robert’s smile and features, for those that didn’t know the man longer they would say that he was actually the one all the stories referred to. Eddard still remembered the first time he had seen him as a little boy, not even ten years old but full of life. He was glad that the boy managed to live a good enough life to be at this point, and grow up with a better childhood than the one stolen from him and Robert by Aerys’ war. Still, it was rather strange for him that a man like Renly did not find himself a bride yet.

“If only, my Lord. I’m quite sure Robert would hand me the crown right here and now if I brought him news of finally binding our houses together. It’s been his dream ever since…” Renly stopped himself there, clearly realizing what he was about to say. “But enough of the past, I’ve come to ask you of the future?”

“And by that you mean my children.”

“But of course. I have seen your two eldest save for that Robb boy that is still in Winterfell. My nephew must truly be blessed by the Seven themselves to be marrying such a beauty.”

“When Robert first offered me the terms of the betrothal, I could not even think to refuse, mainly because Sansa would likely have smothered with a pillow as revenge.”

“And what of the boy? Cregan was it? I had heard of him when news from Highgarden reached me that a Stark was being warded by Mace Tyrell of all people. Truly, I had never thought I would see the day one of yours would go past the Trident.”

“Life is full of unexpected happenings.”

Eddard could scarcely recall the day he had first seen his own son off to the South. It was cloudy, and the sun was blocked completely after an entire week of warm sun, the longest Winterfell had ever gone without any rain or wind. Cregan looked at him as if he was being sent off to war. Something died inside him that day, seeing his son trying to fight back tears as his brothers and sister embraced him. Sansa wept for days, and refused to eat, Robb was struck with a malaise the likes of which he had never seen from the boy, and to make it all worse, Jon… Jon became stricken with fever. It was as if a curse had been brought upon his family. It made him wonder how his own father, mother and siblings felt when he was sent off to ward for Jon Arryn in the Vale.

“I know that all too well. As do we all, I’m sure.” Renly’s voice softened for a moment as silence reigned over the two before the young Baratheon’s face lit up once more. “I’ll not ask why you did what you did my Lord. The Tyrells love their little secrets as much as the Martells and Lannisters, and if I can’t get anything out of Loras I doubt I shall be anymore successful with you.”

“You know Ser Loras?”

“Indeed, he is a close friend of mine. And more importantly, he has told me much about your boy, all good things of course. Strong and brave that one is, with valor and wits, he has the makings of a fine knight. Give him a few years and he’ll be better with a blade than the greatest of Kingsguard.”

“I shall be sure to tell him of your praise.” Eddard smiled. This was perhaps the only pleasant conversation he had since coming to the Red Keep, were it not for the headache that was the council meeting they just had, he would have even been able to enjoy it. Cregan had always been eager to hear of tales of great knights such as Aemon Targaryen and Ryam Redwine, yet it was always the battles and duels he was interested in, the deeds and honorable actions, their status of knights mattered little to him, as it did most men of the North who held faith in the Old Gods.

“If you wish to tell him anything then tell him this as well, should he ever wish to have a good mentor guide him, I am more than willing to take him as my squire. And should you be interested in such a deal, take note that Robert also has his eyes on the boy for whatever reasons. I don’t know why, mind you. Perhaps he needs someone faster to carry his wine sack. Poor Lancel has been on his last legs ever since Tyrek stopped being alongside him.”

“Should he be interested, then you will be the first to know Renly, of that you have my word.”

“A promise forged in iron then, I’m relieved. King’s Landing has been lacking men such as you and Cregan since my brother’s departure, my lord. It will be a nice change of pace to have expectations from words again.” with a courteous bow, Renly left Eddard in front of the council chambers’ entrance, striding confidently across the halls, it made him have to blink for a moment to remember he was not looking at Robert from afar.

Turning his head back into the chambers behind him, Eddard saw Ser Kevan still sitting in his chair, hunched over his records and muttering something to himself. It was a strange site, he was a man of broad shoulders and a thick waist, a body fit for a knight and warrior. Yet there he was, slouched delicately overseeing numbers and writing down something with a quill as if he had spent his life as a Maester of Oldtown.

He had no ill will towards the man, nor towards the Queen and her children. It was with Kevan’s brother and nephew where his grudges lied. Kevan may have spent his life in the shadow of Tywin Lannister, doing his best to live quietly and not be noticed, it was when Eddard saw those emerald green eyes and sandy blonde hair that he was reminded of Jaime Lannister and his father, and the deeds they had committed during the war. Rather, the crimes they had done. The Kingslayer, who stabbed his own liege in the back after swearing an oath to forever protect him and his family, and Tywin, who laid siege to King’s Landing and when the gates opened he sacked it of all life. He did not know who had more blood on his hands, but it angered him to no end.

“Lord Kevan.” he called out to the Master of Coin, who quickly looked up towards him.

“Yes, my lord? Is there something you need of me?”

“No, yet I still see you mulling over that book of yours. Is something the matter?”

Kevan looked at him and then back to his book. His brow noticeably furrowed as a sigh escaped the man’s lips before he shook his head and closed the book. “No, my lord. It is simply some minor finance reports. I am getting rather old, and certain things are beginning to lose their meaning to me, I'm afraid.”

“Age is a curse that chases us all down I’m afraid, and unfortunately there’s not much we can do to run from it.”

“But still we try and try.” Kevan chuckled. “Be mindful of these early years that you still have left, my lord. I am beginning to grey what hairs I still have left, but you and King Robert still have much life left in you, cherish it while you can.”

“Not if his Grace keeps eating and drinking his way into an early grave.”

“Please, my niece couldn’t hold her smile if she heard you say that.” Slowly he began to rise from his seat and approach the Stark who stood by the entrance. “Jon Arryn and I, we had done our best to correct Robert’s mistakes, we worked hand in hand as best we could. I hope that you and I can find similar success in that matter. My only regret is that our two families could have had better grounds for friendship before so that this current predicament would be a more joyous cooperation.”

“You needn’t fear, my Lord. My duty is to the realm first, and to Robert.”

“I am glad to hear that. Jon’s death left behind many… administrational problems. Many of which were thrown under my shoulders once the King had departed. Renly was right on his little slight against me back there, my lord. Living life under another like I have, eventually it becomes blinding when all eyes turn towards you.”

Kevan bowed politely, and began to leave Eddard. “Should you ever have need for me, I will be in my office. I find that is where I spend most of my time these days.”

The Red Keep truly was a marvel to behold. When he had first saw it all those many years ago, Ned could scarcely believe that it was once as grand as it is now, yet the sacking of King’s Landing had done its damage, and even now he could still see the cracks in the wall, and the stains the could never be washed away. He wondered if they haunted Robert the same way they had haunted him. In his dreams, he would still scarcely recall that young woman looking at him from afar, a child and a babe in her arms, the prince of Westeros beside her.

His steps echoed as Ned’s thought turned to more present matters, such as the Crown’s economic situation. Jon Arryn was no master tradesman, but during his time in the Vale the treasury was never left for want. Yet now he hears that the Crown is in debt, after the veritable paradise Aerys had left in his treasury. Were it anyone else, that gold could have lasted three generations worth of Kings. Yet Robert was not anyone else, unfortunately.

_‘A million gold dragons…’_ Eddard thought. _‘Very well, I’ll not be dettered at every setback that comes. But what else have you been hiding from me Robert?’_

He needed to speak with the King, and urgently. It had been a long time since he walked the halls of the Red Keep however his memory had not been lost on him yet, and from what he could gather there were only a few places Robert would frequent and drink himself to a stupor whenever he wasn’t hunting or eating.

Yet just as he was to turn a corner an auburn haired boy appeared from the other side.

“Father?” he looked just as surprised to see him as he was.

“Cregan? Where are you going?” Eddard asked.

“I promised Myrcella that we would go and visit her gardens once we were finally in King’s Landing. You always say that we should do our best to keep our word, so here I am.” the boy explained and Eddard smiled. He was glad he was doing his best to make what he can of the situation thrust upon him. Sansa needed no help with that, of course, yet it was clear Ned’s son did not share his twin’s enthusiasm for the whole arrangement. Still, from the fine clothing he was wearing, Eddard looked nearly a pauper in comparison.

“Aye, I suppose I did.” Eddard wore a rough spun leather and fur tunic, brown and worn alongside his belt and boots made of similar material, it made him realize how he had not changed his attire ever since he came to King’s Landing. While the weathers in the North would have accepted such an outfit, he quickly began feeling the sweat inside him pour, and it was clear he would soon have to change his way of dressing if he wished not to go around a wet mess.

Compared to him, his son was dressed far better for the occasion. A surcoat of fine velvet and linen embroidered with the sigil of the Stark direwolf in a field of white. He looked every bit a lord that would be marrying the princess to the Seven Kingdoms, as much as Sansa did.

“I’m glad you two have had time like this to get to know one another better. Your mother and I did not have such luxuries unfortunately.”

“Yet you two managed just fine. And given how I’ve essentially started with a whole head start on this race, that is what I am hoping for as well.”

“If only half the men in Westeros shared your mindset son. How is your arm, has it healed well?”

“It has.” he reached out his left hand and ran a finger across where the cut had been. “The pain’s gone now, and the wound is healing well enough. Though the scar that it left behind is much larger than I thought.”

“If ever you feel any pain again go to the Maester immediately, understand? Wounds are fickle things, and they can ruin you easily if you are not careful.”

“I know father. You needn’t worry.” Cregan’s voice was calm, as ever. It worried Eddard to no end how collected the boy seemed to be at all times, Arya would always get noticeably angsty whenever he or Catelyn would lecture her on things, and even Sansa would have her caddy episodes when it was clear she was frustrated. Yet perhaps the thing that irked him more was the fact of how much Cregan had reminded Ned of himself.

“Either way, do try not to overexert yourself when it comes to matters regarding the princess, son. It may have impressed her, but King’s Landing is not as forgiving as the Ruby Ford. And she’ll have no use of the gifts you give her if it costs you an arm for them.”

“I understand father. I’ll try to be more careful next time.”

“Good.” he knew of the real reason behind that cut of his. Robert had told him immediately the day after he found out. Yet every time Eddard tried to direct the conversation to the topic, it was clear Cregan had dug himself in with the lie. Sansa and Arya were not much help either, keeping their mouths shut on the matter, yet whereas Cregan had kept on with his story of the Ford, they simply stood there in silence. Bran was clueless to the whole debacle, and frankly he would rather not involve the child in such matters. He would just have to hope that his words stuck with Cregan, and he would avoid making enemies with the Prince.

“If there is nothing else you need from me father, I really should be going.”

“One last thing before you leave son.” he stopped the boy. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Yes?”

“Back in Highgarden, you trained with Loras Tyrell had you not?”

“Garlan as well, yes. They taught me everything I know when it comes to weapons and fighting.”

“And they are both knights aren’t they?”

“Indeed, I was there for when Loras had finally been knighted by Lord Mace. A fine ceremony.”

“That is good to hear, but there is another side of which I was curious about. Did you ever squire for Ser Loras or Ser Garlan?”

Cregan stopped as if to ponder around his mind for memories. “Officially, no. I helped them every now and again with certain things, but I have never actually squired for a knight.”

“Well you’ve got a good head on you, and it is not as if you are too young to start. Lord Renly offered himself to tutor you as his squire. There is no rush of course, but you could consider the offer.”

“Lord Renly? The King’s brother?” Cregan asked, to which Eddard nodded. “I see…” he could scarce read what the boy was thinking, yet from his voice there was a hint of hesitation.

“You’ve nothing to fear Cregan, I’ll not force you. But I can assure you that Renly is a good man, and a fine knight as any to squire under.”

“It is not that father. Rather, I had just gotten an offer right now to become a squire.” Eddard raised his brow at the boy’s words. “From King Robert.”

_‘That explains it. And here I was thinking you had finally taken a page from your sister.’_ although Robert thought very little of it, Cregan was raised well enough to know not to approach the King looking like… well, his father. “I see. And what did you say?”

“It is hard to deny the invitations of a King, much less a chance to squire for him.” he stopped himself for a moment. “When he had offered me it, I was willing to accept, but wanted to ask you first. So I bowed and thanked him on the offer, saying I would need a few days to think on it.”

“Good, that was wise of you. What did Robert have to say?”

Cregan squinted his eyes and looked at Ned with a frowned face. _“Think on the offer lad, if anything I’ll have you running better than any horse by the end of it all.”_ if one had not known the boy, they would think he was mocking the king with his impersonation, but the scarier thing was how accurate it was. “He then proceeded to laugh and drink from his cup.”

“I see. Well, you should heed his words and think on it. Squiring for the king is no simple matter, but should you choose to decline his offer, he won’t think any less of you. Neither of them will.”

“I shall father, thank you for telling me of Lord Renly as well. Now if there is nothing else…”

“Go, we’ll not have the princess be kept waiting.”

* * *

“And this one?”

“That’s a Dragonheart. I’ve been growing these for about three years now.” Myrcella stated rather proudly. There was not much she could say was truly hers in the Red Keep save for her clothes and jewels, but the little spot in the gardens her father had built for her was one of them.

“I’ve heard of these, aren’t they supposed to grow only in humid areas in Essos?”

“They do, but it's not the heat that makes them grow, it’s the soil.” she pointed to the black dirt surrounding the flower. “My uncle Tyrion gave me the seeds and a sack of ground they had dug up from Dorne, apparently that’s the closest thing we have to the areas they usually grow in Essos.”

“You’re quite knowledgeable on these things aren’t you?”

“I told you, didn’t I?! There’s no gardener in King’s Landing better than me.” she smiled, remembering the many times she and Ser Arys had spent planting all of them, though it was mainly Ser Arys doing all of the work, and Myrcella simply stayed back and watched.

“I shall take your word for it.” The Stark boy himself was informed on flowers as well, though that was of course from his time warding at Mace Tyrell’s court.

“It must be very disappointing compared to the ones you saw in Highgarden. I always wanted to go there, but mother and father never wished to travel to the Reach.” for a moment she could have sworn she saw the boy smile, if not for a second.

“Not at all.” Cregan commented. “The flowers in the Reach are… extravagant. Luxurious to say the least. You’ll never find larger and more flamboyant pairs of fauna in all of Westeros. Yet beauty, I find, is often seen in more simple things.”

“So you’re saying you like my flowers better because they’re simpler.” she teased the boy.

“No, but _you_ like them.” he showed his hand towards the five little Dragonhearts that had all sprouted. They were a crimson flower with a circular shape consisting of five blood red petals with the stem coming from the middle. “You can have as many flowers as you want, in as fancy of a castle as you want, yet what does that mean when they were all done by someone else’s hands.”

“Have you ever planted for a garden?”

“I have. A pair of blue winter roses. I would take care of them, water them, tend to their roots. When they had finally bloomed, it felt as if I was back home.”

“They are popular in the North, I heard. Every time we would have a tourney, they would make a crown of them to crown the Queen of Love and Beauty.” She had remembered visiting the Glass Gardens of Winterfell and marveling at the beauty of the many bushes of winter roses that grew there. In the South, they were always so rare in the South, which is why the tourneys had always prized them so much, but in Winterfell, they felt a part of everyday life for the tenders.

“My aunt Lyanna loved them, father always said. And when they had finally fully grown, I tried to make a crown of them, it did not go well.” Myrcella giggled. “But I managed to save one. When blue roses are plucked, they turn cold, yet the petals only wither months later if not watered, so they retain their color and shape for much longer.”

“I envy the girl you gave that rose to.”

“You assume I gave it away?”

“Don’t play coy with me, why else would a boy put so much time into a rose bush?”

Cregan huffed in amusement as they looked at the red flowers in front of them. “You are right in one regard. I did give it away, eventually. But those days I spent tending to them all were ones well spent in my eyes.”

“I’ll not ask who you gave it to then, lest I find out my bethrothed’s true love.”

“Ever the hopeless romantic you are. But thank you, for not trying to delve too deep into personal matters.” Cregan sighed.

“If you ever wished to tell me you would have told me by now, I trust you in that regard my Lord.”

“Then the feeling is mutual my lady.”

The auburn haired boy observed the other flowers with his lifeless eyes. She had thought very little of it at first, always thinking that she was boring the boy, but soon she learned it was not the case, simply how he always looked. They sat there in silence, and while Cregan continued to stare at the flowers haphazardly, she could not help but stare at the boy’s face.

“You mentioned the roses got colder once you plucked them.” Myrcella said to end the silence. “Here, let me show you something.” She gently grabbed the boy’s hand and guided it just above the flower.

“Warm…” Cregan murmured, his brow raising slightly.

“The flower emits a warmth from its petals. Apparently they dated back all the way to ancient Valyria, and dragons liked their scent.”

“Interesting.”

“During the night, the warmness attracts Dragonflies and Lantern Bugs. It gives quite the sight when the moon comes out.”

“Never would have thought of you as the type of girl to sneak out during nights.”

“Please, I see it clearly from the balcony in my room. Besides, I have the Kingsguard should I ever want to go out by myself.”

“And the Queen is very supportive of it I’m sure.”

Myrcella smiled. It was not as if her mother had an iron grip on her or her siblings, it was simply just that it would not do for the princess to be up and about in the middle of the night. Now that she actually had someone to be with save for Ser Arys or Tommen it was easier to justify going out more. Joffrey had no such reservations, he went whenever and wherever he wished, with the Hound coming closely behind him of course.

After a while their little trip to Myrcella’s private gardens was over, and they walked along the more public areas of the keep. Eventually sitting down in a pavilion not too far from the Red Keep’s own godswood. It was a small acre of old elm, alder and black cottonwood trees, yet she never really visited it, at least by herself. She wondered if both Cregan and his siblings had any interest in it, he knew that at least he still held to the beliefs of the Old Gods, while his twin Sansa held to both the Seven and the Old Gods.

As they sat beside one another, a small table between them, a servant brought a plate of sweetcakes and two cups of tea. Cregan was very fond of tea it seemed, while Myrcella liked to indulge herself in sweets every now and again.

“Has everything been alright with your father?” she asked.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.” she held the warm cup of tea in her hands, sniffing the sweet aroma of honey coming from it. “I don’t think he likes me all that much.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Whenever I see him, he always has that tired look about him. We’ve never spoken, but I notice the ways he looks at me and Joffrey.” Lord Eddard had a cold and uncaring aura about him, but from what he saw it was not as if he was unable of emotion, just like his son. Her father always spoke highly of the man, and from what she had seen of him the expectations were all met. “Have I done something to offend him perhaps?”

“Most likely not. Father and you have never spoken as far as I know, and he does not offend lightly. He is simply like that.”

“I suppose you are right. Though I would hate to earn your family’s ire, father has been so happy ever since the announcement of this betrothal, it has been so long since I’ve seen him like that.”

“Hmm…” Cregan murmured.

“You aren’t like that with my father. He’s always telling Joffrey how he should learn a thing or two from you, talking about how you two should spar more often since you’re always down in the courtyard training by yourself.”

“Sparring would be a good idea actually, practicing is good every now and again but it can lead to only facilitating one’s faults when done alone. And I’m glad to hear his Grace thinks highly of me, just today he offered me a spot as his squire.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, as did Lord Renly.”

“And? Did you accept? And who did you choose?”

“No, I thanked the King for the offer, and said I would think on the matter.” the mere notion of thinking on the King’s offer to squire for them is something Myrcella thought rather amusing, she could count on both hands the amount of cousins her mother had tried to force on father, and who jumped at the opportunity thinking they could curry favor with him.

“I will admit, seeing you running around trying to fit my father in a suit of armor would be rather amusing. And once you’ve squired for him, he could even knight you, then I would be marrying a knight as well.”

“Yes…” Cregan answered simply, clearly not taking as much amusement in the matter as she was, but still, she couldn’t help but smile at the thoughts.

_‘Ser Cregan Stark, what a sight you would make.’_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: A Squire’s Life**

The banners flew high the first day as clouds parted and the sun gave way to a blinding light. The capital was buzzing with hundreds of thousands of people pouring in from all around the continent. And as the noble flags of houses North, South and West flew affront from the ramparts and tents lining around the Tourney grounds, Cregan mainly focused his attention to the mess currently happening in the King’s tent.

“Come on, push harder you nancy!” Robert Baratheon bellowed, his breath so tainted with the stench of wine Cregan could hear it from the other side of the tent.

“I can’t, your Grace, the armor-... it’s too small.” Lancel frantically tried fastening the chestplate, yet to no avail.

“Your mother was a whore with a fat arse, did you know that?”

This was the scene Cregan was forced to play witness to fort the past decade, or so it felt like. In reality it must have been only a few minutes or so, but by the Gods, old and new, did it not seem that way. His only reprieve was the entrance of his father through the capes of the tent, the gold chain of the Hand shining brightly even in this dim place.

“One ball and no brains, that’s what you are. Can’t even put on a man’s armor properly.” Lancel unfastened the plate armor that barely held on to the King’s ‘figure’.

In a way he couldn’t help but feel that Lancel’s appointment to this role was some kind of sick joke by his family. Being the King’s Squire lent you some level of prestige perhaps, and it most certainly made his name and face known among the Red Keep’s inhabitants. Yet if it means going through these motions day to day, perhaps being an unknown is better.

_‘They’re Lannisters. I’m surprised Lancel was only the first to be offered up.’_

“You’re too fat for your armor.” Eddard spoke, driving Cregan off his train of thought.

The King looked at his Hand incredulously, “Fat, is that how you refer to your King?”

Silence, as there always is, and then a wheeze, followed by a laugh, as there always is. Cregan remained still as a statue, not giving anything away with his face, while Lancel once more looked like a lost puppy looking for a way home. Eventually he even started to laugh with the two old men, if a bit nervously. Before Robert turned to face the squire.

“That was funny, is it?” Robert’s laugh turned hollow in an instant, and his expression became sour.

Like a performer Lancel managed to turn himself off immediately as well, “No, your Grace.” his eyes darted back to the ground and Cregan sighed internally.

“No? You don’t like the Hand’s jokes?” Robert said before quickly turning to Cregan, “And what about you, eh? You don’t laugh at your father’s own japes?”

“Not at all, your Grace. I’m very amused as you can see.” The sight was more sad than anything, but Cregan couldn’t help but be fascinated at the scene unfolding in front of him, and just how much one person can be ridiculed into the dirt.

Robert scoffed. “Seven Hells, remind me not to start calling you Ned when I get too drunk lest I’ll start confusing the both of you.” that one did manage to get a breath out of him at least, both him and his father. “Now you two heard the Hand, the King’s too fat for his armor, go fetch the breastplate stretcher! NOW!”

Without a second thought Lancel nearly bolted out the tent. If Cregan had not stopped him at the exit he was sure the boy would have most likely been halfway to Casterly Rock at the speed he was running. Once Cregan put a hand on his shoulder however the Lannister stopped dead in his track and looked at him confused.

“There is no breastplate stretcher.” Eddard explained to Lancel before quickly turning to a wheezing Robert. “You’re torturing the poor boy.”

“Aye, I am. I’d say he finally has another pair of brains to help his brawn but I’m not sure if this cockless little twat has a single muscle in that spindly little body of his.” the King marched himself over to the small wooden table to his right and grabbed an empty glass. “Still, you two make yourselves useful and fetch us some more wine.”

“Of course, your Grace.” Cregan responded, bowing alongside Lancel with his hand still on the boy’s shoulder and leading them both out of the tent.

The two exited outside together and Eddard and Robert continued their conversation, yet that was of no concern to him.

In the actual Tourney ground life was bustling as ever, and many squires like Cregan and Lancel quickly scurried around to fetch something or other. Knights were practicing for the upcoming events, and servants of other natures went to fulfil their own tasks. Were it not for their arguably more lavish attire, the two might now have stood out much.

Between his golden locks Lancel attempted to hide the scowl forming on his face. It was something the Lannisters seemed to do quite often, those who had enough hair on their head that is. The right thing to do would most likely have been consoling the poor man, and while Cregan was sympathetic to his issues, he knew all too well Lancel would not have any words of encouragement, especially from him.

“You really should go against him more, you know?” Still, a guilty conscience is a tired conscience.

“What?” Lancel replied almost immediately, it seemed he did not want to be found out.

“The King, you need to stand up to him more.” he replied simply.

Lancel looked at Cregan as if he had grown not one, but several heads on his shoulders. “Tell me Stark, does that Northern Wind blow out all of intellect along with it? Are you utterly mad? Going against the King…” Lancel finally regained some color to his face, at least.

“Why do you think he treats you so harshly?”

“You really are daft aren’t you? He hates us, that’s why. It was clear from the first day he never wanted us to squire for him, me or my brother.”

“And why do you think he allows me to talk to him as I do. My father may be the Hand, but I am still _his_ squire, am I not?”

“Because you Starks share a history with him, plain and simple. The King would sooner bed Eddard Stark than show our family even a morsel of kindness.”

“Incorrect.” Cregan raised a finger, prompting Lancel’s attention. “It is because I know when to call on his bluffs, I can recognise his speech, the way he talks and what he wants to hear. There are times when he wants approval, other times he wishes for banter, most often he just wants a drinking partner.”

The Lannister squire squinted his eyes at the Stark, the two were similar in height, though Lancel was of a far more lanky build than him. Where his shoulders were tight and formal, walking with confidence and control, Lancel often struggled to pace himself. Where Cregan stopped and observed, Lancel put his head down and listened for nothing other than the King’s summons. Over the time since he had become Robert’s squire, Cregan silently tried breaking down Lancel’s habits. Stopping and going at random intervals during walks, slowing down or speeding up at indeterminate times. When they would be standing about Cregan would make sure to put himself right beside the Lannister, with proper form, head held high and arm behind his back, over time Lancel would notice and attempt to imitate him. When Robert called for wine, Cregan would not carry the jug around in his arms, but pick it up and place it back down on a nearby table, showing that he was ready to perform any other action the King required of him.

“Yes, and he tolerates your remarks because you're Eddard Stark's son. If I were to do such a thing he’d have me flogged and my head on a pike before supper.”

“How do you know? You’ve never attempted it, you’ve only kept your head down and mindlessly followed whatever he told you to do or say. I thought Lannisters were meant to be proud, to keep their heads held high like the Lions they are.”

“There’s no use keeping your head high when you’ll be pierced for it…”

Cregan sighed, _‘If only you were this stubborn with him, maybe he’d respect you more…’_ It was a slow process, but in some strange way Cregan felt it was his duty to help him, though why he was so inclined he could not say. Lancel was a good 4 years older than him, practically a man grown with whiskers grown on his lip, yet from the way he acted you would think the two’s ages had gotten mixed up.

“All I am saying, Lancel, is that if you don’t grow a backbone sooner or later, only one of us will be knighted eventually.” The title of ‘Ser’ was a contentious point for the Lannister, it was clear he admired his cousin in the Kingsguard very much so, there were even certain mannerisms Cregan could distinguish as him trying to imitate the Kingslayer.

“Oh of course, next time _our King_ goes and does a little joke about his girth I’ll be sure to laugh in his face about it like your father does. What is the worst that could happen?” Lancel replied with all the sarcasm a westerner could bring about in conversation. It was the one thing he hated most about conversations in the South, everything always had to be tinged with a coat of condescension.

“You’ll most likely lose your position as Robert’s squire, get sent back to Casterly Rock, fulfil the squireship you have left with a far lesser master, and then spend the rest of your life inheriting your father’s position as castellan of the Rock married to some noble girl from the Westerlands.”

“Very funny.”

“I don’t really see what’s funny about that, or have the Lannisters just been so marred down with lies their entire life that the truth has become nothing more than a mummer’s farce to you?”

To the sides, Cregan spotted a white cloak, and heard the rattling of chainmail and plate. Ser Barristan stood at the battlements overlooking the fields in which the joust would take place, his helm to his side, the old man looked almost like the image of a fairy tale knight. Were he only a few decades younger Sansa would no doubt have added him to the long list of charming cavaliers she’s fallen for. For the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, he did not paint the very lordly image that would come with that position. Servants and squires simply walked past him without acknowledgment, fellow knights paid no heed unless greeted directly, and the few who did notice the man’s presence responded to it with hushed whispers.

“Go on without me Lancel, I’ll catch up. The wine barrels are just south of those tents, keep going for a few miles and head left. And-...”

“I know where the bloody wine is.” Lancel marched off without a second word.

“-don’t forget the breastplate stretcher.” Cregan added, much to the Lannister’s continued grumbling.

Ser Barristan remained where he was, yet despite the man’s age it seemed his senses did not wain one bit, he knew that much at least. It was for this reason he didn’t even attempt to hide the fact that he was approaching the Lord Commander. Barristan greeted the Stark with a warm smile and the same stoic gaze he always had. Since their training session this morning the two had gotten to know each other somewhat, yet it was never anything past simple pleasantries. Still, Cregan was glad to have an opportunity to speak to the old man.

“A fine day to you, my lord.”

“Still caught up in formalities, Ser Barristan?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other other way.”

The two stood side by side near the ramparts. The tourney grounds were still in the process of being set-up, albeit it was in the final stages. Only a few hours more and the festivities shall finally begin proper. All of the nobles and guests of honor shall be seated, and the peasantry shall have their spaces to gather as well.

“Do you intend to participate?” he asked the Lord Commander.

“No, I am afraid not.”

“A shame, I had hoped to see your prowess with a lance as much as I’ve seen your swordsmanship.”

“Of that you shall see in the future, have no doubt.” Barristan readjusted the helmet in his arm, leaning it gently against the sword strapped to his sides. “Tell me, do you have any expectations of the coming games?”

“No.” Cregan replied simply. _‘I suppose they do all seem like nothing more than games to someone like you.’_

“You should, the participants this time around seem to be quite the batch. Come what may, we could be seeing a very interesting tourney unfold here.” he had not expected the old knight to be so optimistic sounding of the whole affair, yet Ser Barristan’s voice was filled with a momentary bout of life. “I started my own path to knighthood at a tourney, as do many promising warriors.”

“The tourney of Blackhaven, yes, I know.”

“You’re familiar with the story then.” Barristan smiled humbly, his steeled and pale blue eyes shining against the sun.

“There’s a rare few children who don’t know tales of Barristan the Bold, even rarer few who’ve had the chance to speak with him in person as I’m doing now.”

“Yes and rare few of said tales that aren’t overembellished I’m sure.”

A knight on a dark brown horse trotted onto the tourney grounds opposite the two. He wore the notable Kingsguard raiments same as Ser Barristan, and Cregan soon recognized the man. Ser Roland Storm. The Kingsguard knight trotted around with his horse, doing a few circles about the field, it seemed he was doing it as nothing more than an attempt to pass the time.

The Kingsguard themselves were an odd bunch, Cregan found. Tales could be spun on end of men like Barristan Selmy or Jaime Lannister, they were men who still remembered a time when being a knight meant something. Yet then there were others like Meryn Trant, Boros Blount and Preston Greenfield. Trant and Greenfield were fine warriors as far as Cregan knew, yet their moral character left much to be desired. Blount on the other hand lacked both, how someone like him could even earn the title of a knight was beyond comprehension for Cregan. But despite the bad apples, there were also men such as Arys Oakheart. While he had never properly spoken to the man, Myrcella had not but good things to say about him, not as a knight but as a person.

But then came the issue of Ser Roland. Where he knew of Ser Barristan and the Kingslayer from stories, and the others from pure happenstance, Storm remained a mystery. He often stood apart from his brothers yet not in a distinguishing way, more from the fact he seemed more soldier than noble. It was understandable, of course, the man was a bastard, his name gave away that much at least. Yet unlike many of his other contemporaries it did not seem to affect him at all. He did not try to hide himself away like a man ashamed of his existence, yet he does not carry himself as a man who is proud of his gained rank as a knight.

“Tell me Ser Barristan,” Cregan said, “how much do you know about Ser Roland.”

“Roland… Well, not much, all things considered. He’s a fine man, relatively speaking, with a good head on his shoulders and as skilled a warrior as would befit a knight of the Kingsguard. Although… ah, it is not my place to speak ill of my brothers.”

“Very well, I’ll not pry.” There was no point in trying to get more out of the Lord Commander. While he may seem loose-lipped he means every word he says, and rarely goes back on it.

“You ask many questions, Cregan, yet when faced with an obstacle you do not face it. Why is that?”

“A force of habit, Ser. One I picked up from my time-”

“In Highgarden, yes, I am aware.” there was a resonant scorn in Barristan’s voice, one Cregan had not heard until now, which only made it that much more noticeable.

“You have issues with the Tyrell’s?” it was clear on where his points of contention lie. For all his worth, Cregan did not need to have a Maester’s worth of knowledge to deduce of how Barristan felt about Robert’s Rebellion, yet in some way it made the old knight far more worthwhile in his eyes. He did not need to continue serving the Baratheons after the war, yet Robert helped and spared the man knowing full well he would. Duty was the most important thing to Barristan Selmy, no matter what else his convictions were.

“None you should worry yourself about. I know you are close with Mace Tyrell’s children, you’ll find no disagreements from me there, they seem like a fine bunch.”

“One does not usually describe children and a family as _‘a fine bunch’_ , however I am glad you do not disprove of my history.”

“It is no business of mine.”

“Indeed, it isn’t.” a silence befell the two as they parted gazes from one another, perhaps too hard of a response, but Cregan did not care much to rectify that mistake. The past was the past, leave it and move on. Speaking of moving on however. “I should return to my duties, Ser. The King gets very grumpy without his wine you see.”

“Before you leave Cregan, one more moment of your time.”

“Of course.”

“I know we have just started your training, as well as the princes. However there is something I want to ask of you. When the time comes for the tourney to begin, watch what unfolds, look at every event that happens. When it is all over, tell me what you saw.”

“You ask me to be a spectator for an event I am already going to watch, Ser.”

“Not watch, I want you to _see_ it all. Can you do that Cregan?”

The realization dawned on him on what Barristan was referring to. He nodded. “Of course, Ser.” and bowed to the knight, who smiled once more.

“Good lad, now go. We shall have our next training session once this whole business is over, and I shall begin training you both proper.”

As the two parted ways Cregan thought of the old knights words. There was of course something he wanted him to “see” in this tourney, but what it was escaped Cregan. There was no point in speculation though, he shall only have to wait and find out then.

His time as Robert’s squire was not as momentous an occasion as Cregan would have hoped, yet there was still something to be learned from the experience. Now that he would be trained in the arts of war proper as well by Ser Barristan, Cregan began thinking of the ways in which he himself could improve without others' influence, lest he become reliant on the goodwill of others to succeed.

The life of a squire may not be so glorious yet come time and patience opportunities arise eventually.

The horns began to bellow, and soon the tourney would commence.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8: A Knight’s Honor**

Roland tightened the straps around his armor as the squires saddled his horse and readied his lance. The horns outside his tent blew away for the first bout of jousting. The crowds cheered as two knights charged towards one another, their lances aimed low and their shields raised high. Back inside the Kingsguards small grounds however, there was only silence, soon replaced by the quiet whispers of the two squires who finally finished with his horse’s saddles. He couldn’t make out what the two were talking about, and frankly he had very little want to listen in.

Putting on the last of his shoulder plates, Roland called to the two. “Breastplate.” he ordered, extending his arms, and the squires quickly put the front and back plates on his chest, tightening them on both sides simultaneously. He would have to remember what these boys looked like, they were good at their job, a skill not often found in squires, especially ones this young.

“What are your names?” he asked them simply.

“Uther, Ser.” the ashy blonde-haired one was the first to respond. A lanky little fellow, with dark brown eyes, without the sun to light them, they almost looked pitch black.

“Luther, Ser.” the other squire, with brighter red hair responded afterwards. Opposite to his ashen friend, he was much bulkier, but also seemed to be a bit older.

“You two don’t seem to be brothers. Cousins?” he lowered his hands as the two boys finished putting on the breastplate. Stretching around a bit, he tested the armor a bit for any loose placings. A perfect fit.

“No Ser. Me mum’s a Frey.” Uther responded. “His an Ornfast.” he said, pointing to the red-haired Luther.

“Ornfast? Never heard of you. Where’s your House from boy?” Roland continued questioning the boys, who stood besides one another in front of him now.

“Riverlands Ser.” Uther cut in once again despite the person Roland had put his attention on being the boy right next to him. Luther himself seemed to have no intention of answering, and Roland quickly caught on to the two’s dynamic. “He’s from the Twins as well Ser. His family’s became Castellans for the Freys after me da, Walder Frey, he once had one Ornfast girl as a mistress so- OW!” Uther’s little explanation was quickly cut off by a punch on the shoulder from the older boy. “What was that for?!”

_‘That explains it I suppose. The little lordling and his servant. One’s the large and quiet type, the other’s the small and talkative one. Doesn’t matter much I’d assume, the little Uther boy must be so long down the succession line they’re practically on the same level.’_

Another horn blew as the match from the current jousters finished. From the sound of the crowds it seemed a favorite had won the match. It mattered little to Roland, he had no real reason to participate in this whole damnable affair, nothing but a pouting session by the King organized to celebrate his new Hand. From what he knew, the Hand himself wasn’t too keen on this tournament. Lannister had told him of how the two had gotten into a scuffle in the King’s office due to _“The damnable cost of the entire thing”_. If that was their point of contention, he could not see this Ned Stark staying long in office. Jon Arryn, Seven rest his soul, did his best to temper Robert’s revelry and the other Lannister on the council, was a miracleman when it came to cutting costs. It was no place for Roland to comment though. He was Robert’s bodyguard, not his Master of Coin.

Finally, he put on his gauntlets, buckled his sword to his belt, and put on his helmet. Fully armored now, his horse Yvana neighed, the girl was no doubt as restless to get this over with as he was. She was a feisty horse, a gift from the King all those years ago when Roland had managed to save his life in Storm’s End, tempered with the offer of becoming a white cloak. At the time, it seemed like the obvious choice anyone would choose. It was only later did he realise the mistake he had made. Still, Kingsguards were meant to serve for life, and if that old bastard Selmy could survive for this long, Roland quickly made it his goal to have more than a single page filled out in the White Book after his service has been fulfilled.

Robert himself was not the worst man to protect, he kept himself relatively easy to find. Anywhere where there was ale and women you could most likely find him. It was the family Roland had harder times keeping close. The Queen had her own little pets in Trant and Blount, while the children mainly kept beside their mother, aside from Joffrey, who had Sandor Clegan to be his guard dog. He had always wanted to fight that one, see how well the name of “The Hound” truly fit him. _‘You can dress yourself in fancy armor and scowl all you want, a blade can pierce your neck all the same.’_ he thought.

Taking the leads of his horse in his hand, Roland signalled the two boys to follow him. “Come on, wouldn’t want to keep the people waiting.” as soon as he said so, another pair of horns sounded off, and the hooves of two horsemen quickly became drowned out by the cheers and expectations of the crowd.

* * *

  
  


Standing at the edge of the jousting grounds, Roland and his two squires watched the spectacle unfold in front of them. Some new Vale knight was up next, a bright and haughty faced boy who looked to have just come out of his childhood years, with his shiny bright armor hanged a crescent white moon in a field of blue. It was only once he had managed to get a better look at the boy’s face did he recognize him as Jon Arryn’s old squire. The little boy licked more boots during his time here than all the dogs in the city. Roland was there when Robert had knighted the boy in Jon’s memory after his death, a kind sentiment all things considered, but it was clear to anyone who knew the boy he was not even fit for jousting, let alone an actual battle.

“Up next, Ser Hugh of The Vale!” the announcer spoke.

He turned to see Uther and Luther sharing a scowl, “Not a fan of the up-and-comer? Let me guess, you lost a bet against him at some point.”

“Betting on Tourney jousts ‘s Lord's work Ser.” Uther responded, his brow still heavily furrowed and directed at the young Knight of the Vale.

“True enough, doesn’t stop the squires from having their own little versions of it, does it?” he responded.

“Whoreson…” Luther said simply, nearly growling at the lad.

“Right, I’ll just assume he fucked both your sisters then.” the two didn’t respond to Roland’s words, as most squires do. They’re all mainly taught from the moment they become one to take whatever words throw at them in silence, or face the consequences. Yet all the same, something told Roland they might just be too used to it. _‘A Frey and a Castellan for the Freys. Anywhere outside the Twins you’re practically meant to be a laughing stock.’_

“And his opponent!” the announcer cut Roland off from his thoughts. “Ser Gregor Clegane, of Clegane’s Keep!”

Tall and imposing, Gregor Clegane rode adorned in his armor that weighed near half as him. Roland could only feel pity for the Stallion he had chosen to be his mount. Quite literally and figuratively, that horse was carrying on a mountain of weight on its back. Yet despite it all, it seemed not ready to collapse yet. Perhaps the person deserving of pity more in this case however was little Ser Hugh. His first joust of the tourney would almost certainly be his last, one could only curse the luck that boy had facing against the Mountain when he himself didn’t even properly know how to fasten his helm right.

Both knights rode to their opposite ends in the field and were handed their lances and shields. Hugh beared a simple tourney shield, thick enough to take the brunt of a lance, but light enough to as to not tire out his shoulders carrying it. Clegane on the other hand was of a different mind. Like with all things that came with the Mountain, he bore a shield only someone who weighed near 40 stones and towered over eight feet tall could handle, his thick trunks of arms fastening onto the metallic gauntlets. This match was over before it ever even began, yet still the horns blared, the standards were raised, and the crowd cheered for the two knights who bravely galloped their horses in a quick motion to one another.

Many of the sounds of festivities soon died out however, and were quickly replaced with the screams of shock and terror as Clegane’s lance pierced itself through Hugh’s gorget, impaling him through the neck. The little knight of the Vale fell quickly off his horse, but he did not stand up as many others did before him when unseated. He merely choked and bled, scrapping at the wood and timber impaled deep into his throat. It was a quick death all things considered, but no doubt a painful one. Roland was among the few who did not look away or scream in shock. The two squires stood beside him, their mouths agape, this young man who they only looked at as nothing more than a _‘Whoreson’_ quickly found himself being stared at in only pity and despair by the boys.

In the seats at the very centre of the jousting grounds, the nobles and lords could only stare in disbelief themselves. He could see the Hand and King both with anger in their eyes, with all others simply sitting in silence. They wanted a good fight, what they got was a bloody death. _‘That’s nothing new when it comes to the Mountain. I’m surprised they didn’t bar him from entering at all, though I’d pray for the poor soul who’d have to tell him that.’_

“Go on then, drag the body out of there. Folks don’t want a dead boy’s corpse to ruin their fun.” he tapped Uther on the shoulder and pointed both boys towards the grounds. They were the closest servants there currently, at least, the ones that weren’t taking the Mountains lance and horse from him.

They did so without questioning, running over to Hugh’s dead body and dragging it boy by both head and feet out of the tourney grounds. It seemed they did not have problems with corpses at least, or rather, just the ones they couldn’t recognise. One last brief look at the boy’s lifeless body showed Roland a red and bloated face, blood protruding from both mouth and nose, his eyes wet, no doubt from weeping due to the pain.

_‘You always wanted to be a knight boy, well, you got your wish.’_

  
  


The joust was put on temporary hold for a brief window and during that time Cregan found himself wandering around all of them many pavilions and open dirt roads that circled around the tourney’s territory. The last match had, to put it lightly, put him in a rather terrible mood. A young man’s life, just a bit older than him, snuffed out in that very instance. Had it been a quick death, he might have been less disturbed, but it was the look on his face that irked him the most.

Cregan never could handle death very well, it was one of the aspects of life he had yet come to terms with, despite being around it for so long. Life springs and withers away, that is the cycle that all things follow, no matter what. It did not stop him from thinking of how cruel a fate that must have been though, and just when it had stopped, the pain in the back of his head came back at lightning pace, making it unbearable to be in that crowd of horrified onlookers.

The walk had done him as much good as it could, letting him process the whole debacle that had just happened. It didn’t help much mind you, but it was something. The horns soon began to blare once again, and the standards were raised to begin the tourney anew. On his way back however, he ran into some familiar faces.

“Ah, would you look at that Tor, the prodigal prince-to-be has graced us with his presence.” Willy spoke in a sarcastic tone.

“I can’t seem to escape you two it seems.” he greeted Willy and Tor, who were both busy sitting beside a large barrel seemingly peeling potatoes.

“Come now m’lord, you’ve always been fond of us. Who else can make you get out of your room every morning not looking like an average coal boy?” Willy retorted, he looked to be enjoying the newfound company. Tor never was much one for conversation, even with Willy.

“Yes, and pray tell Willard why in Seven Hells you and Tor here are peeling potatoes whilst there is a tournament currently happening?”

The two looked at one another before sighing. “Jory caught us drinking whilst on duty.” Willy explained.

“And?”

“And… well, in his words, _‘Gambling away what little we were worth’_.”

“Figures then, you two are lucky you weren’t flogged. And knowing you this wasn’t Tor’s idea. Well, I’ll not interrupt your important work then, those potatoes need to be peeled. I have to return to the stands before my father gets worried.”

“Don’t let us interrupt you, Your Grace. Be sure to stop your sister from fawning too much over all the knights in bright and shiny armor. The princeling just might get jealous.” Willy waved away Cregan, his small carving knife still in hand.

“Goodbye m’lord.” Tor waved as well.

_‘I don’t think there will be much fawning by anyone, least of all after what had just happened.’_ Cregan thought to himself, what little reprieve his chat with the two gave quickly became mellowed out with the pain in his head returning, or rather, him becoming aware of it again.

  
  


“Where were you?” his father was quick to ask as he went down the steps towards his seat.

“I needed to take a walk, especially after that…” Cregan responded simply.

“I don’t blame you son, but next time tell me. There was enough panic as it was, I didn’t need to think you ran off somewhere as well.”

“Yes father…”

Taking his seat beside Sansa, the horns began blaring once more. He noticed all the blood and loose scraps of wood had either been washed away or removed. He could see it in his sister’s eyes, that image will stay with her for a good while. Thinking back on it all, this event quickly turned sour after starting off so well, at least for the many people watching. Cheers and singing, bravado and music, it filled the air of the capitol. Sansa absolutely adored it all, she watched each bout with intensity, picking a new knight to fawn over each time. In her eyes it must have been a scene straight out of a fairy tale. For some time, even Cregan could find enjoyment, if only from looking at his twins constant reactions. But reality soon hit everyone on the tourney grounds, and the mood was noticeably less lively. Still, the crowds moved on, and soon the announcement from the King came to bring about the new set of participants.

“Up next, Ser Loras Tyrell, of Highgarden!”

As if in a blink of an eye, the crowds breathed new life onto the tourney, exploding in a roar of screams and cheering in welcoming the famous Knight of Flowers. Adorned in his signature silver armor decorated with twining black vines and sapphires. On his left arm was the Tyrell’s large green shield, painted on it were three golden roses, Loras’ own coat of arms signifying his status as the third Tyrell son. A bit too showy for Cregan’s own tastes, yet when it came to showmanship, there was a reason as to why Loras became Westeros’ most popular knight.

Striding up towards his position, women from across all the tourney grounds grew nearly feral from their proselytizing of the Knight of Flowers, while the more younger boys in the crowd shared in that excitement, though obviously for very different reasons.

“And his opponent,” the announcer could barely be heard, yet he persisted ever more, “Ser Meryn Trant, of the Kingsguard!”

There was nowhere near enough celebration for Loras’ opponent, as expected.

_‘Ser Meryn,’_ Myrcella’s voice popped into his head for a moment, _‘He’s alright I suppose. Mother seems to trust him, and uncle Jaime once told me he’s a good fighter. But he also told me I shouldn’t really be near him a lot…’_

As the two knights charged and lowered their lances at one another, there was little doubt at how it would end. A moment of anticipation, and a sudden crash. Both lances clashed violently into one another’s shields. As if in unison, he could almost feel both his and Sansa’s hearts skip a beat, but for very different reasons. Ser Meryn laid unseated in an instant, with Loras riding on triumphantly. The sounds of victory filled the air, and whatever memory of Ser Hugh’s death quickly became forgotten in the minds of near everyone, save for a few.

In the midst of celebrations and jubilation, Loras rode up to their stands, pulling off his ornate helmet to reveal those same golden brown eyes and mass of curls that decorated his head. He remembered a time when Margaery had once tried to replicate Loras’ hair on Cregan, it didn’t work very well, as they both soon found out.

“For the lady. May its beauty be second only to your own.” a red rose appeared in Loras’ gauntlet as he reached out and handed it to Sansa. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, it was only common courtesy for her to accept it, yet seeing it in her eyes, this could have been the start of yet another one of her infatuations.

“Still can’t pass up the opportunity to be a charmer for the ladies I see.” Cregan could not hold himself back from commenting. Loras only smiled at the Stark boys words.

“A knight should be as gallant with the people around him as he is on the battlefield. I thought I taught you that.” he replied as elegantly as any noble son would, with as much of the bravado as such a response would entail.

“Garlan always was the better tutor.” Cregan replied simply, causing a chuckle from the Knight of Flowers as he rode off, satisfied with his victory yet immediately preparing for the next bout.

Sansa’s face told it all, yet Cregan never was one for subtlety, especially when it came to her. Frankly, neither was she. “Jealousy is often an ugly emotion, dear sister. Especially when it comes to a woman’s thoughts of a man.”

“What?! No, I didn’t… I didn’t-... I didn’t!”

“It’s fine Sansa. Not like you’re the first woman to fall for him, and trust me when I say you’re definitely not going to be the last. When this whole affair is over we can go and talk to him in his tent.”

“Wait, really?! Can I come too?!” Bran popped up from behind Cregan in almost an instant. He’s no doubt heard countless tales about Loras as well.

“I see no reason why not, I had actually intended to do so before the jousts began, but simply didn’t have the time.”

“You don’t… You don’t have to do that brother, really. I know you two are close but I’m sure Ser Loras values his privacy a bit more-” he could practically hear Sansa’s regret as she continued to speak, her sense of lady-like posturing overbearing any sense of want she had, well not really, but it was a fine attempt at it.

“You hounded me for weeks when I came back to Winterfell about the man, well now you have the chance to actually meet him, and not only that, but talk to him. Just… remember that you are still betrothed, dear sister.”

“Oh shut up.”

With another blaring of the horns, the standards were raised again and the announcer came forth to call the next match. “Facing off against the previous victor, Ser Loras Tyrell, of Highgarden…”

“... Ser Roland Storm, of the Kingsguard!”

* * *

With his armor fitted, his saddle strapped, and both his shield and lance handed over. Both of his newly found acquaintances gave their good luck to the Knight. “Tell me then lads, how much of a chance do you think I have against that dandy prick?”

“On a scale… well, we’ve both bet against you Ser.” Uther responded.

“Good as odds as any I say. Do me one thing though boys.” the two squires perked up for a moment. “If I die, make sure to strangle the son of a bitch that does me in so I can pummel him in whatever Hell I end up in.”

“Will do Ser.” Luther spoke with as much confidence as a young squire could muster. If there was anyone that could do it honestly, it was probably the bigger lad of the two.

The knights rode into their position. Yvona neighed, the girl was getting impatient. She was a war horse first and foremost, but Roland had long since taught her to be more patient when it came to these things. Though much more suited to actual battle, she eventually had gotten herself used to these kinds of events, acting in near perfect unison with her rider. It was all Roland could ever ask of the animal in all honesty.

The moment the horns sounded off they both kicked their spurs into motion and the horses began galloping away, with the Tyrell’s horse gaining the upper hand in speed and momentum it would seem. Still, if there was anything he had learned from all these years of being Robert’s bodyguard, it was how to be good at Tourney’s. A simple trick that most all knights knew, but rarely used in effect. Frankly, it was seen as unsportsmanlike, but Roland could not care less about the opinions of some pompous blue-bloods and their little definitions.

Their lances came closer and closer to each other's shields. Wait for the right moment, till the opening is there. Upon the halfway point where their lances met, Roland ducked under, sliding himself to the sides and avoiding the Tyrell’s lance. With as much strength as he could muster in his arms he lunged it forward, hitting the Knight of Flowers’ shield dead on. Usually, just the sheer speed of the impact was enough to take out most jousters, must some had gotten so used to their tourney fighting that they knew of ways to brace themselves for the impact in such a way that it looked as if it did not even affect them. Just from looking at his riding style Roland could see that the Tyrell boy was one such knight.

With a thunderous crack his lance started to splinter and break away, yet through it all the crowds cheers soon came to a silent halt, replaced with the realization that Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, had been defeated in his first tilt. With a loud thud, the knight’s body hit the ground as he flew off his horse. There seemed to be no other danger than that however, as the Tyrell quickly got back on his feet, if a bit dazed. When the victory was announced, it was clear that the crowd had no way of knowing how to react.

Few cheered, but those who did had done so more out of surprise than anything, and soon more joined in. Up on the stands Roland saw through his visors slits the King, laughing his ass off, face red at the fact that Roland had managed to do something even the Kingslayer himself failed at. Even the Queen looked to be a bit impressed at the performance, giving a polite clap at it all. It must have been hard for young Loras Tyrell, standing in the middle of the grounds, his fine silver armour now stained by dirt, crowds cheering for someone that wasn’t him. He didn’t quite cut the knightly figure he once did now that he was off his horse with dirt between his plates.

Still, Roland wasn’t cruel. He rode up to the Tyrell boy and unclasped one of his gauntlets, taking it off to shake the boy’s hand. As he reached his hand towards him, the Tyrell quickly shook it with his own un-armored hand. “Well fought Ser…” he commemorated nobly, it seemed at least the boy was not a sore loser, his furrowed brow replaced with a sad yet content smile. “Tell me, what is your name?”

“Roland.” he answered simply. _‘You would think he would have heard it with the announcement. Too caught up in his own heroic tales up in that pretty little head?’_

“You do me a great honor then Ser Roland, come the finals I fully expect you to win this tourney, and I shall be among those cheering for your victory.” Loras spoke rather gallantly and with a flowery language few knights actually used. Yet there was still some cocksure nature and arrogance in his words, he’d grown used to hearing it ever since he had come to King’s Landing, hell he’d been around it near all his life. Being a bastard is an assurance of that. It made sense however, he was from the Reach, and over there chivalry is as important as food to them. So it was no wonder he had been somewhat of a good sport about this.

He had expected more of a negative response from the crowd. It was not everyday that the famous and loved Knight of Flowers was taken down by some lowly Kingsguard knight no-one had ever even heard of. Still, his little show of sportsmanship, apart from the trick he pulled during the joust, earned him the favor of the crowd, and, it seemed, the respect of the Knight of Flowers.

Riding up back to his two squires, they both looked at him with begrudging respect yet firm disappointment. “Sorry lads, I’ve a penchant for disappointing those that bet against me.”

* * *

The next few bouts proceeded as many in the crowd expected. With Loras now gone, they found their new champion in Roland. It had been one of the few times where people were actually beginning to cheer _for_ him, rather than against. In his next few matches, he faced off against his other brothers in the Kingsguard, unseating both Ser Arys, through multiple tilts, and Ser Boros in a single one. How Blount managed to even get this far was beyond him. 

After them came Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr. Dondarrion was a fine knight, and a good fighter in many respects. His tendency of a clean and fair fight however made him a good target for Roland’s strategy of actually moving away from his opponents lance and attacking whilst they were closer, ending that bout quickly. Thoros was a much tougher opponent to deal with, he was a rather large pain in the ass when it came to melee’s, using his flaming sword to scare away the horses, fortunately for him however the bastard did not know how to set his lance ablaze so there was no trickery happening there. Still that did not mean it was easy. Thoros actually attempted Roland’s own strategy on him, yet it was clear he only did it in an attempt to copy Roland, rather than train for it. After 3 tilts both men ended the match in a draw, and would go on to the semi-finals.

The semi-finals of the tourney, however, would prove to be a rather difficult affair. As there was not one, but two Clegane brothers participating, and Roland just had to square up against the one he had no wish to fight.

“In the semi-finals, Ser Gregor Clegane, of Clegane’s Keep, shall face off against the runner-up, Ser Roland Storm, of the Kingsguard!”

He debated simply throwing the match right then and there. He had no stakes in this tourney all things considered, and only a few would sneer at him refusing to take on the Mountain of all people. The most mocking would have likely come from Robert, and no doubt Trant and Blount would happily exclaim how they would have never surrendered. _‘To hell with it all, just to shut those two up I’d go against the Stranger himself.’_

They both rode in to their respective sides of the jousting grounds. Him, adorned in the white cloak and silver plate of the Kingsguard, and Clegane, with his towering set of jet black armor decorated with a tabard of his House. There would be no tilts or second chances in this round, he knew very well that any slip-up would be of use to the Mountain, and would aid in Roland’s quick and painful demise.

The horns blew, the standards unfurled, and both men spurred their horses to charge. The closer he got to his overwhelming opponent, the more time seemed to slow down in front of him. He had used this tactic twice now, once against Tyrell, and another time against Dondarrion. In the time it took him to charge towards Clegane, he wondered if he had enough luck that it would work a third time. No, Clegane was a brute, a monster, but he was not devoid of intelligence, he could already see it in the giants shoulders that the Mountain intended to take on the full brunt of Roland’s charge, and if there was anyone who could withstand it, it was him. He had to think smarter, and just in the moment when their lances interlocked. He spotted his chance. Leaving his gorget purposefully exposed, Clegane clearly took the bait. Swinging his head to the sides, the lance just narrowly missed the Kingsguards head, yet the same could not be said for Clegane.

A powerful crack was once more heard from Roland’s lance, this time not on his opponents shield, but straight towards the man’s helmet. The impact seemed to be so much that Clegane’s grip over both his lance and shield immediately loosened as he tried to grab for the reins of his horse. It proved fruitless however as Clegane’s horse continued charging, dragging the Mountain along by the virtue of one of his feet having gotten stuck on the saddle. It was a clear elimination.

The crowd burst into open applause. Singing, whistles, even full on screeching could be heard as men, women and children threw their praise towards the Knight, figuratively and quite literally, as flowers began raining from the crowds.

_‘If only it could be like this all the time, I might just start liking being a knight.’_

“HAHA!” the loud bellowing of the King could be heard amidst the crowd, when he looked over to the stands, Robert was practically red in the face, but clearly amused. The Queen however was much less so, to no shock. The Clegane’s were her fathers dogs, and she didn’t like it when someone else hurt her fathers belongings.

“SWORD!” The cheers were quickly cut off by the Mountain's cry, seems he finally untied himself from his little predicament, but looked none too happy about it. His squire handed him the massive two-handed broadsword he was known for and Roland for a moment thought he was going to challenge him to a duel. If only it were so simple.

With a murderous cry and butcher-like precision, Clegane carved his horse’s head in two, to the terror of the audience. His bloodlust did not seem to end with his horse however, as the Mountain’s eyes soon pinpointed themselves to Roland and Clegane began fast approaching. Like a snarling beast ready to pounce he could hear the Mountain’s heavy breathing.

Any Knight worth their salt would immediately have drawn their own blade and charged at the Mountain while still mounted, but he knew what that would have entailed, and he was not about to lead Yvona to her own death. Dismounting, he slapped the horse on her behind to flee. “Get!” Yvona ran away with haste, leaving both men without the advantage of a horse.

Unsheathing his blade, Roland thanked his past self for having the foresight to bring his weapon with him just in case something like this would have happened, but he never expected to be brought into a deathmatch against the Mountain no less. _‘Anything to shut those two up I said… Gods curse me and my bravado.’_ he was not about to tuck tail and run now. Placing his heels to the dirt, he steadied himself for what would be a fight to the death.

Situations like this were not uncommon. A knight would lose a joust, yet would claim his opponent cheated. In response, the two would duel one another to prove with strength of arms who would be determined the victor, or would place the decision to the host of the tourney, the former of which being considered the more polite and honorable option. Usually this would be a cause for celebration amongst the spectators of the tourney, as they would see two knights battle it out one-on-one in something that wasn’t a melee. This was not a case of it however. People screamed at both the Mountain and the King himself to stop this, Robert himself roared through the crowds pleads to end it now, yet none of it came through to Clegane, and frankly, neither did it to Roland. All eyes were on the Mountain.

With a lumbering overhead strike, Clegane blade nearly threw itself toward the ground where Roland stood. Taking a step to the right, he dodged the blade as it lodged itself deep into the sand. Had he been hit by it, there was no doubt it would have split him in two. Taking a hit with his plate armor usually kept him safe in battles for the most part, but all rules were thrown out the window when fighting such a monster. One hit from the sword will ruin him. _‘Best not to let him even strike then.’_ he thought, before going on the offensive.

A flurry of strikes descended upon the mountain as he struggled to dislodge the blade from the ground, none affected him in the slightest. His armor, twice as thick and ten times the weight of any regular plate, was made with the express intent to shield even someone like Gregor Clegane from all harm. Yet like all armor, there were cracks, holes Roland could use and exploit to his advantage. There was no time to double-down on said advantages however as Clegane dislodged the massive broadsword from the ground and began swinging once more.

Massive cleaving strikes were Clegane’s main strategy, and in battle he could only imagine how devastating they truly were. Yet one-on-one, Roland still stood a chance. Dancing around the massive broadsword, he dodged and side-stepped his way behind Clegane. He noticed something however, a dagger on his belt, larger than any knife he had seen, though in those trunks for arms, this was most likely as small as it could get.

His little barrage seemed to tire Gregor out, so seizing the opportunity, Roland grabbed the knife from his belt and thrust it towards the back of the bastard's knee. The wet crunching sound of metal hitting flesh was clear for him to hear, and if not, it was Clegane’s cry of pain that showed the audience he had been hurt.

Barely even flinching however, the Mountain soon retaliated with his own attack. His massive arm was sent hurling backwards to strike Roland. One hit and it would most likely have decapitated him, but thankfully he was not the one who was hit in the head by a lance, and thus could move out of the way just in time. Now wounded and obviously exhausted, Roland took a few steps back away from his opponent and would-be killer.

“Come on you fat, putrid son of a whore… You want me, I’M RIGHT HERE!” he taunted the giant, unclasping the pins on his shoulders holding the white cloak behind his back. As it fell to the ground, so too did the Mountain rise to his feet. Dragging the wounded leg a full half-turn before facing Roland again, the Mountain now held his broadsword with both arms. It seemed he was determined to end it.

There was a barrier both were stuck in now, a mental one. The noises and effects of the outside world meant practically nothing, sounds turned muffled, background blurry, everyone else nothing but part of the scenery. Clegane was focused, he didn’t attack with rage any more, taking a moment to actually anticipate his opponents moves. They circled around one another, and for once, he was actually surprised at how patient his opponent was being. That wouldn’t do.

“What’s wrong Clegane, the moment you fight something that can hit back you piss yourself? Or has one of those those girls you like raping finally up and cut your cock and balls off?” he taunted his opponent. To be rather honest, Roland was fairly disappointed in himself to stoop to such basic insults, this was a proper duel, not a bar fight. Yet in such times of quick thinking, he didn’t have the luxury of thinking up anything more sophisticated. More complicated and he even feared the Mountain would become confused at the taunts.

They did their job well enough however, and once more the Mountain began charging at him. With a primal roar he lifted the broadsword overhead and brought it down upon Roland, it was only after his first step with the leg Roland had wounded did his little attack fail. The knife still lodged in the back of the knee, Clegane found his leg failing him, thus causing the giant to begin stumbling to his knees.

Taking the opportunity once more, Roland grabbed the blade of his sword with both hands and began pummeling his opponent's helmet with the butt end of the hilt. First two strikes with the pommel directly to the back of his head, then another with the guard that managed to land to his sides. Though not fully paying attention to them, he could still hear the crowds fear-fueled pleads soon turning into enjoyment as they saw a man so hated getting beaten down by their new champion.

Yet, Roland was bound to eventually make a mistake. No matter how careful he was, the Kingsguard still took too many chances when striking down his opponents helm. Fighting through the pain, Clegane moved his head out of the way of Roland’s fourth strike, causing the helm to fall off. In that split second, he managed to grab at Roland’s legs, pushing them towards him and causing him to fall to the ground.

Disoriented but not fully dazed, Roland was quick to react when Clegane pulled the dagger out of his leg and thrusted it towards him. Rolling out of the way of the attack, he did his best to gain distance from his opponent. Thanking every God that ever existed that he unclasped his cloak before this, otherwise it would have been the death of him.

That did not stop Gregor however, the moment the dagger had hit the ground he let go of it and jumped towards Roland, who was on his knees trying to get up at that point. Thick, iron hands clasped themselves around Rolands neck before he could even react. The Mountain’s face was right there in front of him, foaming blood at the mouth like a wild dog. He could feel his neck being crushed, the air refusing to enter into his lungs. He had less than a moment to react to this and break free, lest he would die in an instant.

Clegane was not the only one who carried a dagger on his belt. Reaching behind his back, he pulled a much smaller knife than the one Clegan had and stabbed at him in the shoulders. The proper response would have been to go for the head immediately, but Roland never intended on killing him, however un-mutual that feeling was as Clegane lifted him off the ground and up in the air, only worsening the iron grip he had on his neck. The knife to his left shoulder caused Clegane to loosen his grip by only a fraction, yet it was all Roland needed for one last ditch effort. His armored hand crunched into a fist and cocked it back for all to see. With blind fury, he beat into Clegane’s face, the metal slowly beginning to dent itself into Roland’s hand. He could feel the bones in his knuckles breaking with each time his fist connected, yet that did not stop him. A man such as Gregor had no need to worry about flesh hitting flesh against him, but when it came to an armored gauntlet, that was a far different story. His teeth were sent flying, his nose quickly broken, skin turning blue from the hits, his left eye became bloodshot. Slowly, he felt the grip loosening further, but in the end, it was Roland’s own strength that failed him. Every subsequent hit that followed grew weaker, and he could feel his consciousness leaving him the more time passed without any air coming into his lungs.

The world around him grew dark, his potential final sight in life being the monster that was choking him out. In the distance, he could hear a man roaring, muffled yet somewhat distinguishable. He’d recognize that voice anywhere, even as he was dying.

“STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING!” Robert Baratheon bellowed, and in his head, he was somewhat glad that this could have been the last thing he heard.

_‘Sorry Robert, looks like you’ll have to find a new fool to be your bodyguard.’_

Just as he felt the grip tighten for one last time, a shock towards the ground and quick burst of air flung him back to life. Coughing and reaching out to the nothingness the soon inhabited the space around him. Looking up at what happened, he saw no other than the Hound, his mailed fist descending like a blessing from the Seven upon the Mountain’s face, causing the giant to go flying.

It wasn’t long before the Mountain got back up on his feet, practically snarling and ready to keep fighting until someone put him down like the mad dog he is. The intervention of Sandor Clegane came as a shock to Roland, yet it was the man who came with him that proved an even greater surprise. Loras Tyrell stood in-between the exasperated Roland and feral Mountain. Though not in his armor anymore, he could have easily recognized him by the mop of brown hair on his head and the finely woven green tunic laced with golden vines on it. With both hands, the Knight of Flowers held up Clegane’s shield against him, forming a figurative wall between him and Roland. When Sandor stood beside the Knight, the Mountain had to take a pause and truly think if this fight was worth continuing.

“ENOUGH!” the King bellowed once more, and all sound dropped, leaving silence in its wake. The Stag King still commanded some authority within the Capital.

The Mountain, miraculously, seemed to calm down, at least somewhat. Seeing the futility in continued disobedience, even Gregor Clegane was not mad enough to go against the King any further. Huffing and spitting away a mouthful of blood and broken teeth, he threw his broadsword to the ground and walked away. He’ll leave the capital alive no doubt, but one could shudder the fate of those he would meet on the way back home.

Extending his hand to help Roland back on his feet, Loras dropped the Mountain's massive shield and assisted the Kingsguard, being careful not to grab the clearly broken right hand.

“Well well Tyrell, it seems you have more fight in you than I originally thought.” Roland said through bated breaths before turning to the Hound, who was still staring at his older brother walking away. “And you, Sandor. I never thought I’d say this Clegane… but thank you. Seems you two have saved my life.”

“We are knights, are we not? It is our duty to help those in danger.” Loras spoke with that same flowery language he did before, yet this time with much less arrogance in his tone, which made Roland only appreciate it more now.

“I’m no knight, boy.” Sandor responded with a scowl.

“Oh will you fucking shut it Clegane, you’re ruining the moment.” Roland said.

The crowd was still silent, unaware of how to process the events that had just transpired. Even Robert looked as though he didn’t have a clue of what was coming next. _‘Welp, time to come to the rescue yet again.’_ Roland thought, sighing and walking in between his two saviors.

“Your Grace, I believe we have a clear winner here!” he exclaimed to the King in the stands, and more importantly to the crowd of onlookers as well. “In fact, I believe it would be more quaint to say we have _winners_!” With his broken hand, Roland made sure to be careful when pushing the Tyrell boy’s own arm up, yet he caught on fairly quickly. “The Knight of Flowers!” he announced to the crowd, before raising the arm of the man to his left, “And the Hound!”

The whole tourney grounds erupted into cheers as the horns sounded off once more. The people always did like a good hero’s story. It just so happened that this time it would not be him that turned out to be at the center of it, but rather the crowd favorite once more achieved the attention he was known for. Loras was used to this kind of fanfare, but Roland could see from his face that this time it hit rather differently. And for once in his life, it seemed Sandor Clegane had earned the love of the people, no matter how much he pretended to hate it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9: A Boy’s Dreams**

As the entrances into the melee grounds opened up, Martin once more checked his armor and weapons one last time. A sword and mace strapped to his side alongside a heater shield he held tightly by the handle. His armor was all still there as well. Unlike many of his opponents, Martin wore no colours, save for the small cloth of blue wrapped around his left arm. The plate protecting his chest blended rather well with the chainmail surrounding it, the metal having been worn out a long time ago, losing its shine with the many dents and holes accumulated over the years.

He still remembered the first time participating in a melee such as this. Well, not exactly like this, it was a far smaller affair. A tourney in Lannisport by one of the local guild leaders, his first ever taste of combat. A boy, just shy of manhood, he had barely gotten any armor on his skin when entering. Yet with nothing but a flimsy, half-chipped sword, he won that melee, and took a few silver stags from some greedy old merchant lord. That was what he considered the beginning of his journey towards a lifelong goal, an ambition few of his social status are willing to work towards, yet many dream of.

Said dream never felt further from him however. The costs of entering into the tourney were far greater than he had expected, just entering into one of the games would cost many normal men lifetime's worth of pay, and entering into several of them… well, it was clear why the nobility were among the main participants within such events.

He did not bother himself much with the joust, he had only one horse, and was not willing to risk his steed for a multitude of reasons. Seeing what he saw of the whole debacle, he had to thank his former self on making such a wise move. A fight against the Mountain like that, well it was downright a miracle that no one, save the horse, died. The horse and perhaps that Squire boy from the Vale, yet people soon forgot about him, as did Martin, as sad as the reality was.

The melee came second after the joust, an exciting follow up for many and something Martin was far more willing to conform to. Afterwards would be the Archery contest, which Martin had also signed himself up for. While his skills with a bow were nothing too pay attention to, he still took the opportunity as a way for people to possibly see his skills. Indeed, there was never a doubt in Martin’s mind that he was going to lose all of this, especially seeing the opponents he would go up against, yet through it all, business is business, and perhaps some fat noble’s son would see his endeavors and seek out his services.

Still, as he fastened his belt and sheathed his blade into its scabbard, the thought of winning still crossed Martin’s mind ever so frantically. It would certainly make him a rich man, and such a situation seemed almost like a once-in-a-lifetime deal for someone like him. He took one last gaze at his longsword, a precautionary weapon that would be a follow up for his mace should anything happen. Unlike the old and rusted tool he had brought with him all those years ago, this sword was freshly sharpened, wetted with oil and tough enough to cut through stone, to a point of course. If anything, he could be happy that he had gotten this far at least.

The horns blew out in the distance, snapping him away from his thoughts. It was time.

Out in the Tourney Grounds all of the fighters convened in the middle. There were around fifty or so competitors it seemed, a dozen more than the initial fight the happened before this melee. That fight was held for men of higher esteem, knights and noblemen who could pay for participation, as well as fight on mounted combat. This, this was a brawl, performed completely on foot, and using whatever the combatant has or possesses to win. Amusing for the most part, it still looked as if it was a festivity intended for the nobility to enjoy, it was this half of the melee many of the peasants were waiting for.

King Robert stood up in a stupor from his chair and all of the participants perked up as silence overtook the Tourney Grounds. It looked as if the King was going to say something before he cocked his head to the side and spit on the ground and snorted. A wave of his hand was the signal for the standard bearers to lift up the banners and the announcer to begin the game.

“By the grace of the Seven!” he started, reading from a finely decorated parchment, worn from use over the years. “You warriors and knights, ever brave, gather here to fight for glory and honor! With blessings from His Grace, King Robert Baratheon the First, take up your positions, and let the un-mounted section of the Melee begin!”

While this was a free-for-all, the beginning of the melee still had half and half participants going to their respective parts of the Arena. The rules themselves more or less encourage chaos to spread upon the first clash. The halfs would converge upon one another upon the start of the fight, yet afterwards, there were no sides, and it was every man for himself. It was this way that stopped fights from devolving immediately into bloody pits of death.

With around twenty of his fellow combatants alongside him, Martin looked over to the other side, the same amount of fighter opposite them. Even here, in the melee meant for the less esteemed members of the tourney’s participants, Martin stuck out. He had no fancy regalia to adorn himself with, no banner to fight under, no colors he could call his own. Rather, all he had was a bit of dented armor and some shiny weapons that paled in comparison to some of the spectacles his other soon-to-be opponents had. In the corner of his eye, he could even spot something he was dreading, a white cloak, adorned in silver, shining armor. One of the Kingsguard knights had joined the fray, and not just any knight it seemed. Turning to his side to get a better look at the man, he was in shock to find no other than Jaime fucking Lannister standing just a few feet away from him.

_ ‘Just my luck…’ _ was all Martin could think, sighing internally as he put his helmet on and strapped it tight. His only hope would be that someone managed to get a lucky strike at the golden Lion bastard before the two of them came to blows, otherwise, he did not really foresee himself living past this tourney.

The horns were soon raised and the King gave the signal to begin. With a mighty sound the tourney became flooded with cheers from the onlookers, which in turn were quickly deafened by the thunderous charge of the combatants towards one another. Unlike many of those around him, Martin was not aiming for anyone in particular, he pulled his shield up and simply charged forward, being prepared to knock whoever was first in his sight onto the ground.

His mace and shield gripped tightly, Martin prepared himself for the impact. A rather larger fellow seemed to be his target, and the two collided, as did dozens of others, and soon the storm of combat had begun.

For two long hours they all fought, many fell, others surrendered, some most likely were killed in the chaos of it all, yet in the thick of it Martin only thought of his own survival. Though at this point a veteran of combat, he had never truly been involved in a war, the time of the Greyjoy and Targaryen wars long before his time as a Hedge Knight. That did not stop him from picking a few things up in the instances where he did fight actual battles. Tricks and deception here and there, techniques and genuine shows of prowess earned him the spot quickly as one of the remaining few that were still standing.

Battered, bruised and tired beyond belief, Martin stood alongside a dozen or so other fighters. Soon enough they each found their combat partners, those that didn’t would gang up on one of a fighting pair before turning on the other. Martin was lucky in that regard at least. He began a duel with some knight, most likely part of a wealthier house if his armor was anything to go by. Clad in pure plate save for the tabard around his chest, the shinning armor had long been dirtied during the entire melee. At this point, the only thing differentiating the two was that one bore a standard, whilst Martin himself was bannerless.

A checkered black and purple field with a lightning bolt in-between it, that was his opponent's crest. Martin did not care what house he belonged to, merely what way he was going to bash the man’s skull in with his mace.

“Tired now, are we?” the knight spoke from beneath his helm, it was the first time he had heard another person clearly since the beginning of the fight, save for the screams and grunts of the other fighters.

“Only as much as you good Ser.'' While he never cared much for the nobility, even on the battlefield Martin made a note to himself to at least grant those he fought against basic courtesy, no one was above that much.

“Tell you what, you surrender right now and I’ll pay you fifty stags for every head you took down when this is all done.” he proposed, doing a mocking bow with his arms and one leg forward, leaving him completely exposed to an attack. “On my honor as a knight…”

Martin had to stop himself from laughing at the man’s face. “The honor of any man who would pay his way to the end of a tourney is not a word that aspires much confidence my friend! You ought to be more careful with your phrasings.” he replied cheerily. No matter how exhausted he was, it would be a lie to say he was not enjoying the thrill of it all.

“Very well then, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” The knight had shown his hand, with shield raised forward and sword in a lunging angle he charged towards him. Though running purely on his last bouts of strength, he was not ready to end it all here.

A step towards the side was his action the moment Martin’s opponent plunged his blade forward. With expectation in his motions the knight was prepared for the move, and from his lunging position used a last ditch effort attack towards Martin, swinging his sword sideways. Had he reacted a second later, the blade could have easily plunged itself into his exposed neck, killing him in an instant, yet thankfully, that was not the case. He raised his shield just in time and deflected the blow and in one swift motion brought his mace crashing down on his opponents head.

The knight fell limpless, sword and shield falling from his hand as he hit the ground. Another one down.

There was no time to celebrate however, yet while keeping himself aware of his surroundings Martin did take a moment to regain his breath, it was safer no doubt, yet he could never get over how hard it was to breathe in this helmet of his. Quickly scanning his surroundings he saw that most of the other fighters had also been taken out whilst their exchange was happening, leaving only two others for Martin to face.  _ ‘Just two more… two more and I win…’ _ he thought to himself, a stream of hope entering his mind, only for it all to be dashed away the moment he saw who he would inevitably face.

Jaime Lannister and Thoros of Myr fought against one another in a heated exchange of blows, the Kingslayer fearlessly facing off against Thoros’ famous flaming sword with a smile on his face and nothing but excitement in his eyes. From where he was looking, Martin could not fault anyone in the audience paying little attention to his endeavors, even he was mesmerized at the dance of blades happening in front of his eyes just a few feet away. He took this chance and crouched down, these two would tire themselves out, and as the fight went on Martin already made peace with himself on how he would lose, intent at this point on just not dying, his little scrap back there being the closest he had been so far to actually biting it all. He wasn’t intent on intervening in this bout between the two, using the opportunity to regain what little stamina he could while trying to keep the blood flowing in his veins.

It looked almost like something out of an old wives’ tale. The gallant knight in shining armor taking on the dragon drenched in fire, yet both figures he knew were nothing like their storied counterparts.

Soon enough it looked as if the Kingslayer was victorious in the battle, dodging one of Thoros’ fiery blows and striking the knight over the head with the butt end of his pommel, knocking him to the ground unconscious. As the crowd cheered Jaime Lannister quickly turned his sights on the last remaining opponent. Helmetless and without even a shield to protect him, the Kingslayer spotted Martin as a Lion would spot its newest prey, ready for a fresh meal. Martin got back to his feet and quickly readied himself.

“Seems it’s just you and me then, Ser Knight.” the Lannister spoke. “Tell me, what’s your name?”

“Martin, Ser Lannister.” he replied simply, eyes too focused on the Kingslayers weapon to be an active part of the conversation.

“Of which house? I recognize your accent as one of Lannisport. Wouldn’t happen to be one of my cousins now, would you?”

“I’m afraid not Ser.” Martin replied once more. “I am of the House of fame, fortune and adventure, from the distant lands of cow shit and pig styes.”

“Ah, a Hedge Knight.” Jaime Lannister grew a smile on his face once more. “You’re a regular Duncan the Tall then aren’t you. I suppose that makes me your Targaryen Prince, the big bad dragon for the hero to slay.”

“I’d hope not. There’s not many knights who’ve faced dragons and lived to tell the tale, has there my lord?”

“Hah! Right you are, now come, let’s end this.” he raised his sword with both hands, still haughtily mocking Martin with a relaxed stance. Where he looked to be on the verge of collapsing, the Kingslayer never seemed to be more lively.

_ ‘I suppose he’s right.’ _ Martin thought,  _ ‘No point in delaying the inevitable at this point.’ _ while he was certain of his defeat at this point, it did not mean he wouldn’t give it an honest effort, and so he charged bravely towards the dragon’s gaping mouth.

The moment his first swing had begun, Jaime Lannister looked ready to deflect, parry and dodge all the same time, yet what he did not seem to expect was a feint, and that was exactly was Martin performed. Just as he had brought down his weapon his pulled the mace back and jumped a few feet backwards, putting distance in between them. With an air of confusion on his face Martin used this moment to surprise the Kingslayer even more. He threw his mace at the man with everything he got, and though it proved ineffective, it gave Martin just the right amount of time to disable him and let him move in for a strike. Pulling his blade from the scabbard Martin struck a sideways swipe with the longsword, paying attention to the Kingslayers every move. Masterfully, his opponent recovered just at the right time and blocked the attack in but a single stroke. His trump card was gone, and there was no more element of surprise. A flurry of blows soon descended, and Martin quickly began struggling to keep up with the Kingslayer, eventually just putting his shield dead forward to his opponent.

The act of desperation did not go unnoticed by Jaime Lannister it seemed, as the Kingslayer quickly maneuvered his blade around Martin’s defenses without him even realizing it. Slowly and surely he was putting dents into his armor, chipping away at him with small jabs and kicks here and there. One strike even managed to graze his neck, and Martin could feel the cold sting of the Kingslayer’s sword slicing through his skin, leaving a small cut, thankfully, it was not lethal.

_ ‘Not working…’ _ Martin thought, before quickly switching up strategies, both men had longswords, blades intended to be fought at mid to long range in terms of sword combat. The solution then was simple.  _ ‘Cut of his angles.’ _

A desperate charge towards the Kingslayer soon proceeded, with Martin dropping his longsword on the ground and gripping his heated shield with both hands. The last ditch effort seemed to prove successful and he quickly closed the distance between them. With one hand still on his blade Jaime Lannister grabbed the edge of the shield with his other and threw a quick jab at Martin’s helmet with the pommel of his sword. Martin, in return, grabbed Jaime Lannister by the throat. This move seemed unorthodox to even the Kingslayer, and from the look on his face it was clear he was never expecting anything like it. Sweeping a leg over one of the Kingslayers, Martin shoved the shield forward and sent both him and the Lannister to the ground.

Pinning his opponent in the dirt he unfastened the belts on his shield and held the Kingslayer in place with one knee on the shield held against his chest and a foot that came crashing down the Kingslayer’s sword arm to keep it pinned. Martin raised his mailed fist high up in the air and brought it down to the ground, inches away from his opponents face, causing him to flinch and instinctively tug his head in the opposite direction. The crowd fell silent, and the only thing that could be heard was the two’s ragged and disheveled breathing.

“Yield?” Martin asked honorably, breaking the silence the lingered between them. Was this it? Had he won? Had he finally achieved the first step towards his lifelong goal? It all felt so surreal, as if he was dreaming it.

Jaime Lannister sighed, “No.” and just like that, Martin fell for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Using his free hand, the Kingslayer threw a clot of sand towards his eyes, blinding him. In one swift motion, the roles soon became reversed, and his opponent now stood over him, a blade just by his throat ready to cut it open in an instant. “Now,” the Lannister asked, “Are  _ you _ ready to yield?”

The world was a cruel place, yet its ruthlessness was something Martin had gotten used to a long time ago. Which is why he simply threw his arms back on the ground to lay in the dirt and nodded in response, admitting defeat.

Jaime Lannister rose from Martin’s lying body, the crowd cheering his name as they no doubt did many times before.

“AND WE HAVE A WINNER!” the announcer cried, “Sir Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, has won the melee!”

* * *

“Careful there Maester, I don’t need you breaking my fingers any more than that lumbering giant already did.” Roland said as the old bearded hermit of a Grand Maester continued wrapping a salve around his broken and battered hand. “If Robert loses his best sword hand, I’ll have just the person to blame.”

The old fool choked back his fear at those implications. “O-of course, Ser.” he replied, only mildly hiding the annoyance and scorn in his voice. The two never had a very good working relationship, then again neither did many of Roland’s associates. Such is the price to pay for being one of the few loyal men of the King it would seem.

“You’ve truly outdone yourself this time.” Renly commented, slicing up an apple with some ornate knife a noblewoman no doubt gifted him. “I’ve heard many men growing desperate in times of danger, but very few of them thought of such a scheme as beating the Mountain into submission.”

“How very sneering of you Renly, I’m only used to you being condescending. Lost a bet now have you?”

“You never fail to prove me wrong in my thinking of Robert being wrong in taking you in Roland. Had I known you were a mind-reader as well as a monster in melee, why I’m sure men would be lining the streets looking to hire you.” the Baratheon chuckled, taking a bite out of his cut-up apple.

Just then, the flaps of the tent opened up to reveal Roland’s Lord Commander, still clad in that pearly white armor he himself was in a few hours ago. Renly and Luwin both arose from their seats and bowed in respect and greeting at the Lord Commander, and Ser Barristan did the same to them both respectively.

“My lord.” he greeted Renly, a small smile on his lips. “Maester Luwin.” nodding to the old Maester, he kept his tone equally polite yet without the smile. It was only when it came to Roland that the pleasantries seemed to stop. “Roland,” the old knight started “that was quite the match you had.”

“So I have been told.” Roland rested his bandaged hand on one knee, dressed in nothing but a tunic and pants, the two provided a stark difference in appearance once his armor was off, with one resembling more a simple pauper than a knight and the other looking like an old king off to battle. “What brings you here Lord Commander, doubtful that you’ve only come to congratulate on a battle well fought.” he got right to the point.

Though he was never on any hostile terms with the other members of his order, Roland was very much the figurative black sheep of the white cloaks. This status undoubtedly was earned due to his circumstances of entering into the Kingsguard, having only been knighted seconds before being handed the cloak. Compare that with the high and mighty noblemen who had a lifetime of practicing in knighthood under their belts, well, it was clear who thought themselves more superior in that regard. Trant and Blount were of course the main perpetrators of such hatred, the Kingslayer, while pompous, did not seem to care much of him, and neither did Roland have any intention to change that, and Oakheart was at least kind in his discrimination, yet there was still an apprehension that Roland easily caught on whenever the two spoke.

The Lord Commander was a somewhat different story however. As the figurative leader of the Kingsguard, it was the old Selmy who welcomed Roland into the order, and for lack of any alternative, Roland found himself talking most often with the old man, though through no small effort of his own, as Barristan was most often the one who initiated any conversations. Indeed, most of their conversations revolved around the King, or the Royal Family, sometimes he would even have full conversations with Robert and Roland in the King’s office, yet those moments were few and far between. While better than his relations with his fellow Kingsguard, Roland could not call anything he and the Lord Commander had more than a formal working relation, and he was content on keeping it that way.

“Indeed I have not.” Ser Barristan confirmed Roland’s assumptions. “Yet that does not mean I will not congratulate you all the same. You fought bravely back there, better than most men would against such an opponent. I wanted you to know that had Lord Loras and Ser Sandor not intervened when they did, I and our brothers were already on the way to help.”

Roland smiled at the thought of Blount trying to punch the Mountain the same way the Hound did at the Tourney Grounds, one had to smile a little bit through the pain. “Well then in whatever time that does happen you shall have my thanks, but for now, I shall stay said gratitude for those who did actually help me.”

“You shouldn’t be so rude Roland.” Renly interjected. “You might not have seen the crowd’s reactions whilst being chocked out, but everyone, including Robert, was damned about ready to jump in there and help you. It was quite the sight if I do say so myself.”

“Which you did.” he replied to the Baratheon before turning his attention back to Ser Barristan. “Anyways Lord Commander, anything else you wished to tell me?”

“Yes, there is.” Ser Barristan placed his hands on his belt. “I have a request for you, Ser Roland. One that I’m afraid I cannot let you refuse.”

* * *

The day had passed and gone sooner than Martin would have liked it to, the celebrations, jubilation and festivities having run their course for the day and with King’s Landing’s people returning to their homes after a long days of entertainment, so too did Martin. He had envisioned himself at this point, coming back to the tavern a rich man with enough dragons to last him a lifetime, several even. Yet as life was want to do with him, such aspirations were shunned by pure bad luck.

Still, he got out of that whole endeavor in one piece, which he was at least thankful enough for. Yet the bruises and pain he was feeling from fatigue did not help in his gratitude. Not only that, it would appear he had gotten himself lost.

Roaming the outer reaches of the Tourney grounds, Martin never realized to himself just how similar everything around the area looked. Tents and banners flew haphazardly, and unfortunately for him he did not think to memorize the way he came in from. Everything simply looked the same, and even worse it seemed everyone was in an ever bigger rush to prepare for the coming days, not even sparing a moment for him when he pleaded for help to oncoming servants and strangers.

As such, Martin spent a majority of his time wandering around, until eventually coming across someone who just might might be his saving grace. Three men stood completely still around a fire, rather, one stood, the other two sat. The two men sitting looked to be of a more common status, homely kept and with little in the ways of care in terms of attire, while the standing boy was far younger than them, a much more composed and well-kept nature about him if his appearance was anything to go by. ‘ _ No doubt some landed page or squire _ ’, Martin thought.

“Pardon me gentlemen.” he approached the three. “I hope I am not intruding however I need some assistance.”

“‘Course friend.” one of the older men spoke up, the smaller of the two. “What'd Ya need?” his tone was friendly and inviting as he swung back a bottle of ale, causing a sigh and rather disappointed look from the younger man.

“It’s rather embarrassing to admit yet I seem to have gotten myself lost. I came for the tourney here and have a room in a tavern on Cobbler’s Street. Getting to said tavern has proven to be an issue however as I cannot find the way out to King’s Landing’s main streets.” Martin explained.

“Aaaah, I see…” the man responded, listening intently to his explanation before taking another swig. “You’re a newcomer just like us then, well, I’m afeared we cannot much help you in terms of gettin’ to Cobbler’s Street.”

“That’s quite alright, rather, I was hoping to ask if any of you men knew the directions to get out of here. The rest of the path I can easily traverse myself.” he replied courteously.

“I’ll show you.” the younger man replied, turning his attention to Martin. “I’m done speaking with these two bufoons either way.”

“Oh come now  _ m’lord… _ ” the drunk man said. “You know you love us, otherwise we’d be off with our heads a long time ago.” his words caused a chuckle within the man, no doubt already long affected by his drink, and a nervous smile from his much bigger compatriot.

“I can’t deny that. Anyways, stay out of trouble you two, don’t let Jory catch you again or he’s going to be the last of your concerns.” the young man’s voice was rather monotone and drab, yet somehow his two other companions seemed to regard it with a manner of camaraderie, Martin at this point had no intentions of interjecting, the fatigue taking hold of him by the second. “Follow me Ser.” those same monotone words caught his attention quickly as the dark-auburn haired boy began walking away, Martin quickly following behind.

As they went past all these Gods forsaken tents once more, Martin began noticing a pattern. Yet in all honesty, he had long given up trying to decipher what that pattern was, only being thankful that someone gave him the time of day, or night rather.

Taking another good look at the boy, he noticed some more striking features Martin hadn’t noticed before. Aside from the rather strange auburn hair, the boy also possessed striking steel blue eyes, irises seeming almost nonexistent from within. From the look of him, Martin could have easily mistaken the boy for some nobleman’s son, yet if that were the case there was no way he would be speaking with some commoners on the tourney grounds, much less be dressed in such simple attire. He thought of striking a conversation with the boy to pass the time to their destination, perhaps that would relieve some of the dead air surrounding them. From the look of him, the boy did not seem to be the talkative type though.

“I saw your fight today in the melee Ser.” to his surprise however, the boy was the one to break the silence between the two, yet it was of a topic Martin unfortunately would have rather not brought up.

“Is that so? You were part of the audience?” he did not really know how to respond, having been caught off guard by the boy’s sudden speaking up.

“I was.” a simple reply, followed up by a look from those steely blue eyes. He had half expected the boy to begin outright mocking him for the display, to even think of having a chance at beating the Kingslayer of all people. Yet, once more, to his surprise, the boy simply gave a small nod of what Martin could only interpret as approval. “You fought well.”

In some ways, that small praise was worth more to Martin than a thousand screaming cheers or a million congratulations from enamored onlookers. Again the boy had somehow caught him in a corner, and so the only thing Martin did was sigh in relief. “Thank you.” he replied back.

A few more moments of silence followed as they finally reached their destination. The young boy pointed out to the dirt paved road that led in town and in his mind Martin could only curse himself at how simple it all looked now in terms of layout. “Keep going straight and you’ll be back in the city in no time.”

“Excellent, you have my thanks.” as he was about to leave and say his goodbyes to the boy, a thought struck him. “One final request. May I know your name, friend? I don’t know many people in this city, yet if more of them are like you then perhaps I might like it here more.”

“Doubtful.” the boy once again gave the simplest of replies, looking down at the ground for a moment before locking eyes with him again. “Cregan. My name is Cregan.”

“A pleasure, I am Martin.” he reached out his arm, hand open. “Thank you for your help, Cregan.” the boy stared at his open hand for a moment before shaking it rather timidly.

“Not a problem. Stay safe, Ser.”


End file.
